


The Watcher in the Night

by Kristalyn



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kristalyn/pseuds/Kristalyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vetinari may be untouchable, but his enemies have found a new way to undermine his power. Vimes finds himself the target of a plot that may destroy everything he stands for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prologue gives us some insight into both Vetinari and Vimes and the (entirely platonic) relationship between them.

1.

Havelock let himself drop to the narrow ledge that ran along the top floor of the Assassins' Guild. He knocked three times on the woodwork surrounding one of the windows, each time in a different place and with slightly different force, causing the window to open soundlessly. He slipped inside his room, carefully locked the window again and pulled the curtains closed and suddenly, where at first a casual observer might only have seen the suggestion of movement, there was a now boy who walked over to the bed, let himself fall down on it and flung an arm over his face.

“Such drama,” a voice from the shadows said. “I take it you failed your task?”

“I’m deeply sorry, Madam." said Havelock. Despite the somewhat dramatic pose, he sounded calm. "I did what I could, but I’m trained to kill individuals in carefully planned circumstances, not dozens of soldiers in complete and utter chaos.”

“I see you have already found a suitable justification for your failure. No, don’t protest. People need to tell themselves these things. Now, please, report.”

Havelock sighed. “As I said, chaos. The revolutionaries’ defences were not nearly adequate, and soldiers were coming in from the Shambling Gate and the Misbegot Bridge. Keel was defending the barricades at the Whalebone Lane end. I took position on top of the Watch House, a nice touch, I thought, and shot anyone who looked like he might be in a position to kill Keel. I got the first seventeen. The eighteenth managed to escape my attention and stabbed Keel just as my crossbow bolt pierced his throat. After that, it seemed there was little left for me to do, so I came back here.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Quite.”

“You know best, I suppose,” said Madam. She sighed. “Such a shame. I thought he would have been a good man to have in the Watch. Nevertheless, one must move on. I believe I owe you eighteen dollars, no?”

“I failed my mission, you do not owe me anything.”

“Doctor Follett would be very cross with you if he heard you say such things. A compromise, perhaps. I shall take you out to dinner on Saturday. Now, I must be off and busy myself with politics. Don’t stay here and sulk all day, will you? There’s the glorious dawn of revolution to enjoy, and I do believe you have classes to attend in the afternoon.”

There was a rustling of cloth and the sound of a door opening and closing. For a moment, Havelock let his aggravation get the better of him and considered setting a few new traps his aunt didn’t know about. He forced himself to remember the many reasons she deserved his respect, and decided it would be very unfortunate should she accidentally lose a limb or two. It would ruin her social life.

He folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He felt restless. He had failed his mission, and it seemed to him he needed to do something to make up for it. Keel was dead. He was part of the past now, and that was not a place Havelock liked to linger. He’d heard from various sources that Keel seemed to have taken an interest in a young lance-constable by the name of Sam Vimes. Keel had seen something in the boy, and had wanted to encourage it before it was lost. Maybe, Havelock thought, I can go from there. Keel is dead, but Vimes is alive. Keel must have taught him a few things, by demonstration if not by discourse. Sam Vimes, he decided, was someone to watch. And if the boy did follow in the footsteps of Keel, he was someone to keep safe until he was needed.

2.

Captain Ashton was entirely uncertain whether he wanted to be here, but he knew he had to go through this eventually, and it might as well be now. It wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter, not really. He stood to attention as best he could and waited.

Eventually, Lord Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, deigned to acknowledge the captain’s presence. He carefully put the documents he had been reading down on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

“Ah, Captain Ashton. So good to see you. Have a seat, please.” The Patrician gestured at the empty chair next to Captain Ashton, who saluted and gratefully sat down. He wasn’t used to all this standing about. A captain, he always said, belongs behind a desk. And if he wasn’t doing his paperwork so much as eating, sleeping and drinking tea, at least he was where he ought to be.

“Good. Now, Captain Ashton, I understand you are planning to retire from the Watch.”

The silence stretched out just a bit too long, and Ashton realized he had been asked a question. Blast. On the rare occasions he’d been summoned to the Oblong Office before, he’d gotten away with saluting and saying “Yes, sir!” whenever it seemed appropriate.

“Well, um, that is, I was considering it, sir.”

“A fine habit. A man certainly should consider all possibilities for his future before taking irreversible steps. It has also come to my attention that your wife is supporting your… considerations.”

Ashton felt sweat starting to form on his forehead. He thought about denying what seemed very much like an accusation, then decided it would be useless. If the man knew, he knew. His shoulders sagged.

“She seems to think a man of my age shouldn’t be risking life and limb every day to defend a city that is, in her opinion, rotten to the core and beyond redemption. Sir.”

“Risking life and limb. How very interesting.” Vetinari paused for a moment, steepled his hands and looked at Ashton – who was clearly in possession of both his life and all his limbs – over the top his fingers. “It is my experience,” he continued, “that these sorts of considerations tend to lead to actions rather quickly. Which is why you are here now. Tell me, who would you recommend as Captain of the Night Watch when the post becomes available?”

Ashton brightened up considerably. This he could do!

“I have, in fact, already spent some time thinking about that very question, sir. It seems to me that the best candidate would be Corporal Vimes.”

“Corporal Vimes? I seem to recall he is outranked,” said Vetinari as he reached for the folder again. He scanned some of the pages and continued, “Ah, yes. By Sergeant Colon. The highest ranking officer of the Watch, present company excepted. Wouldn’t tradition demand Colon be promoted to Captain?”

“That is definitely true, sir, no argument there. The thing is, it takes a certain sort of man to be Sergeant, and Sergeant Colon is that man. I don’t think he’d make a good Captain, and frankly, I don’t think he wants to.”

“I see. Very well. Corporal Vimes certainly seems to have managed to keep an excellent record over the entire course of his twenty years of service. Astonishing. There only seems to be the small matter of his tendency to drink to excess.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t hold that against him, sir,” said Ashton, in a tone that would have been defensive if his survival instinct hadn’t been so strong. He liked Vimes. “He can’t help it, sir. As far as I understand, Corporal Vimes is naturally just a few drinks on the wrong side of sober. The sober side of sober, that is. He himself says he has the bad luck of seeing the world as it really is, and I think he’s seen more of the world than is healthy for a man.”

“Ah. I think I understand. He tries to make up for this… disorder by consuming alcoholic beverages, and then overbalances, so to speak.”

“That’s exactly right, sir,” said Ashton, in the tones of a man who’s had this conversation a dozen times already.

“I don’t really see why that should be necessary, though, “said Vetinari ponderously. It’s not as bad an affliction as the general population seems to believe.”

“Sir?”

“My suggestion is for him to acquire a sense of humour instead.”

Captain Ashton felt increasingly out of his depth. His mind was still thinking up apologies for this tiny flaw in Vimes’ character, but the Patrician wasn’t acting according to the script.

“Thank you for your valuable input, Captain Ashton. I shall certainly keep it in mind. Before you leave, there’s one more thing I’d like clarified. I believe there is some sort of ceremony to formalize the retirement of a Watch Captain?”

Well, yes, there was, Ashton knew, and he knew he’d rather not go through it, if it was all the same to all parties involved. The thought of shaking the Patrician’s hand was enough to make a braver man than him feel faint with terror.

“Err… can’t seem to recall that there was, sir.”

The Patrician smiled thinly.

“Would you like there to be one? I’m sure my clerks could find information on the exact procedure in the archives.”

“Oh, no need to go through all that trouble on my account, sir. I’m not a man of ceremony. I’ll just make sure the paperwork is done, and that’s that as far as I’m considered.”

“Excellent. If only everyone in my employ was so self-sufficient. Tell Corporal Vimes to report to me as soon as you have all your affairs in order, and I shall make his new rank official. I’m pleased we were able to settle this matter to the satisfaction of both of us. Now, I’m sure you have much to arrange. Good day to you, Captain Ashton.”

Captain Ashton stared at the Patrician for a moment as he tried to process what he had just heard. The last bit had been pretty clear, so he got up, saluted and left as quickly as possible. Outside, he took a moment to wipe the sweat of his forehead and collect his thoughts. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. The conversation had left him behind at some point, and now it seemed his retirement was all but a fact, even though he hadn’t even been sure he wanted to retire. He definitely hadn’t wanted to retire right this instant.

He considered going back in there to make this clear, then considered that he could also dive head-first into the Ankh and get the same net result. He gave up and headed back to Treacle Mine Road dejectedly. At least his wife would be pleased. Probably. Well, at least he could damn well make sure his pension was adequate for a man who had given so much of his life to the protection of the city. That cheered him up a bit. And the lads would have to throw some sort of goodbye party for him, with lots of drink and unhealthy food.

By the time he reached the Watch House, he had convinced himself that retiring was the best decision he’d ever made.

3.

Shortly after Captain Ashton had left, the Patrician’s personal secretary entered the office.

“Are you certain that was wise, my lord?”

“You question my judgment, Wonse?”

“A judgment can be sound at a certain point in time, my lord, yet prove to have been made in error after new information comes to light.”

“Are there facts in your possession of which I am unaware? Please, do tell.”

Wonse shifted uncomfortably. “Not so much facts as intuition, my lord. I do not think Vimes would make a good captain.”

I’m afraid intuition just will not do, Wonse. You still have much to learn, if you wish to change my mind about things. Learn to find the facts that fit, for example.”

“My lord,” Wonse protested, “I wasn’t –“

The Patrician held up a hand to silence him. “It’s quite alright. I wouldn’t be where I was today if I didn’t have respect for the subtle art of intrigue. However, what I value most in a man is the willingness and patience to apply himself to his craft until he achieves mastery. You can learn much, in the position of my secretary. Watch and learn. I advise you not to aspire to outwit me, though. It will only lead to disappointment.”

Years of training were the only thing that kept Wonse from clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. His voice was perfectly neutral as he said, “Thank you for the advice, my lord. I shall strive to live up to your expectations.”

“Excellent. To return to your initial point, one of the facts you are missing is that I do not wish the Watch to operate in any manner resembling competence.” And, he added privately, if I ever do wish them to act as the enforcers of law, it will be so much easier if the men are used to following the command of Vimes than that of Ashton. However difficult it is to restrict a man’s access to alcoholic beverages, it’s almost impossible to instill a sense of justice and integrity into a man like Captain Ashton.

“Now, if there is nothing else?” The Patrician looked at Wonse expectantly.

Wonse replied, “No, my lord,” bowed stiffly and left the office. Vetinari watched his exit thoughtfully. It was not often that he engaged in self-disclosure, and tonight’s effort seemed to have been entirely wasted. As much as it would pain him to declare the entire project a failure, he might have to rethink Wonse’s fitness for his current position.

4.

Whatever else could be said about them, The Rusts threw great parties. They called them thés dansant and no one had the heart to tell them that those were really not supposed to last until the sun rose again. It was on one of these occasions that Lady Sybil suddenly found herself face to face with Lord Vetinari.

“Oh, hello Havelock!” she said cheerfully. “Such a rare pleasure to meet you at one of these things. Not that I have lots of time for them myself, mind you, but I hear going out together is all part of courting, and I thought Sam should like to see how high society amuses itself. It’s all terrific fun, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it is. I was under the impression, however, that a courting couple is expected to enjoy these occasions together,” said the Patrician, looking pointedly at the complete lack of Vimes in the general vicinity of Sybil.

“Oh, you know how it is. I start talking with my friends and completely lose sight of him after a while. I suspect he’s gone off to have a nice chat with some of the boys. In one of the smoking rooms, perhaps.”

“Indeed," Vetinari said, and didn't say he thought it much more likely Vimes was brooding in a dark corner, as far removed from ‘the boys’ as was feasible. "I hope everything is going well for the two of you?”

Vetinari started walking along the walls of the large ballroom and Sybil followed.

“Of course, of course, no need to worry on our account. The wedding is in a month or two, as you should well know, we sent you an invitation after all, and everything is going fine.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I was, however, enquiring on a more personal level. It would surprise me if a woman as affluent as yourself failed to organize a wedding. No, what I’m wondering is, are you pleased with these developments? Happy? The both of you, of course.”

Sybil looked flustered. “Well, Havelock, you know I consider you a close friend, but that’s a rather personal question, you know.”

“I do.”

Vetinari said nothing else but kept on walking. Sybil kept on following until the silence became embarrassing and she felt she had to answer the question just to break it.

“Well, yes, I would say I’m pleased. I know what the people say, he couldn’t do any better and I couldn’t do any worse, but it’s not as if I need to marry for wealth or titles, haha! But honestly," she said, sounding more serious, "I think he’s a better man than anyone present here.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, in a way. Life has got him down a bit, I suppose. But there’s also the man he could be, if you know what I mean.”

“I rather think I do. Tell me, do you think you can make him into that man?”

Sybil frowned. “I don’t think I like the sound of that, but I would like to help him change himself.”

“I see,” said Vetinari noncommittally. He himself had never had any moral objections to shaping the people around him. “Have you given any thoughts to the form this help would take?”

“I suppose I can’t give him a slap on the nose and take away his food bowl,” Sybil said and laughed nervously.

“Not his food, certainly. There are, however, other things you might consider removing from his presence.”

Sybil stopped walking abruptly. "There are certain things one does not discuss in polite company, Havelock," she said, without turning to look at him.

"And therefore we shall not discuss them. I merely wish to point out how much we might all enjoy a Samuel Vimes whose head is always clear."

Now Sybil did turn towards him. She looked confused. "I certainly agree, I don't see why you are involving yourself, though. I’m sure you know Sam will resign from his position in the Watch after the wedding?"

"Oh, of course, of course," Vetinari waved the question away. "I have my reasons to believe, however, that your betrothed will soon find a way to exert his very special brand of positive influence over the city once again."

"Well, yes, I suppose he will spend a considerable amount of time in the company of the city's gentlemen. It would be nice if he did have some positive influence on them."

"Something along those lines, yes. Now I'm afraid I must leave your charming company and give my attention to the city again. I wish you a pleasant evening." He bowed slightly towards her, Sybil curtsied in return and Vetinari left.

Sybil wandered towards the buffet, the one place at a party where it is acceptable to be alone for a short time, deep in thought. Havelock certainly did make a good point. Several good points, even. She could, she considered, use some simple tricks to associate alcohol with some sort of negative emotion, like shame. No, that would be too sneaky. She wasn't sneaky. A good, straightforward and definitely not sneaky first step would be to order Willikins not to serve Sam any alcohol.

At this point her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Lady Brenda calling her name. Sybil turned and smiled, determined to enjoy the rest of the evening. Later, there would be more than enough time to think about the things Havelock had said.

5.

Lord Vetinari was sitting alone in his office, his elbows resting on his desk and his chin resting on his hand. His eyes were closed. He knew he should be doing something, reading or writing files, possibly calling someone else in for an appointment, but something was wrong. There was something odd about the weather. And there was something else. Something that was trying very hard to escape his attention, and almost succeeding. A lesser man might have given in, but Vetinari ruled even his mind with an iron fist. And, yes, there it was.

He remembered.

He remembered a day, thirty years ago, when a small-scale hero had tried and failed to defend a handful of streets. He remembered a true hero who had succeeded in keeping almost a quarter of the city safe from harm.

He remembered thinking Keel could be a useful man, someone who, if only he had lived, could have done some real, lasting good for the city. He remembered thinking Keel was a genius who understood the heart and soul of the city and could make it do whatever he wanted, and miraculously this man was a good man, the kind of man who could make a great city glorious.

He remembered thinking he should keep an eye one Sam Vimes, because Vimes was impressionable and Keel was impressive, and maybe he had made just enough of enough of an impression. He remembered wishing fervently that they boy’s memory of Keel would stay forever sharp, that Keels influence would be felt throughout the rest of his life.

He remembered holding every city official up to the standard of Keel, and no one ever being good enough. He remembered trying to shape Vimes in the image of Keel, and he smiled at the literal-mindedness of history.

He remembered knowing it was possible to read the city’s streets through the soles of your boots. He remembered always being vaguely annoyed with his aunt's tendency to insert significant pauses in her speech. He remembered how chocolate milk, permanent ink on a plaster cast and ginger could be used as weapons, as tools in one of the most peaceful attempts at war he had ever heard of.

He remembered trying to save a man's life from a safe distance, he remembered… He felt the memory of a conversation change shape.

6.

“Such drama,” a voice from the shadows said. “I take it you failed your task?”

“I’m deeply sorry, Madam." said Havelock. His voice was strained. "I could only take the coach as far as Heroes Street, where the remnants of the barricades blocked my way. When I didn’t find sergeant Keel there, and,” his voice sounded a touch reproachful, “had no idea where he might be either, I ran across the rooftops until I heard fighting. I arrived just in time to see Sergeant Keel holding Captain Carcer by the throat. The next moment Keel dropped to the ground, stabbed to death, and Carcer was gone.”

“It seems to me that that last part of your report is less detailed than what I have come to expect from you.”

Havelock shrugged. “There was chaos. I was aiming my crossbow. It’s amazing how you miss the larger picture when you’re focusing on a man’s throat.”

“You’re certain he’s dead, though.”

“Yes. I checked. Wounds. Blood. Body already cooling. Definitely dead.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Err, well, not really, not as such. That is, I may have jumped into the battle and killed as many of the bloody bastards as I could, and I dare say people noticed the Assassin in their midst, but my face was definitely not recognizable, being covered as it was with the soot I found in a nearby chimney.”

The voice sighed. “I suppose that will have to do. Such a shame. He could have been so useful. Still, I’m sure you did all you could and I won’t hold this failure against you. Though I must say I’m surprised at your reaction. I believe you suggested inhuming the man yourself not two days ago.”

“That was different.”

"How so?"

"I would be the one doing the inhuming."

"I see. How very surprising. I must say I'm also surprised to hear that you, as you said, killed as many of the bloody bastards as you could. In the streets, like a common murderer."

"Not a murderer." said Havelock sharply. "A revolutionary."

"A revolutionary? Fighting for what? Against who? You might remember Lord Winder had already been deposed. You took a rather active part in the process."

"After which I discovered we had replaced one mad oppressor by another."

"Those are dangerous thoughts. Be careful where and when you express them, Havelock."

"I shan't do so again. Don’t think I’ll put them out of my mind soon, though."

"Then don't. Maybe one day you'll have the opportunity to act on them."

"I dare say you have just expressed thoughts more dangerous that mine."

"Possibly. Let's not linger on them." Madam's voice took on a cheerful tone which Havelock knew meant she had stepped into her role of charismatic socialite again. "Now I must be off and busy myself with politics. Don’t stay here and sulk all day, will you? There’s the glorious dawn of revolution to enjoy, and I do believe you have classes to attend in the afternoon."

"And educative they will be, no doubt. Goodbye, Madam."

"Goodbye, Havelock. I'm sure we'll meet again soon."

With that, she left. Havelock didn't move. There were times to look life bravely in the face, and times to cover your eyes and dwell on what could have been if only you had done things differently.

7.

The Patrician’s coach stopped in front of what would soon be the Treacle Mine Road Watch House. Again. The first person to step out of it was Drumknott, followed by the Patrician himself and Commander Vimes. They didn’t move far away from the coach. The Watch House was being rebuilt by dwarfs and you never knew when they might decide a small explosion was in order.

“Work seems to be progressing nicely, Commander,” said Vetinari.

“Trust dwarfs to do a good job of it, sir.”

“So I’ve heard. I trust you are keeping a close… watch on them?” asked Vetinari.

Vimes mentally rolled his eyes at the pun. He’d heard it more often than he could count, and if Vetinari wanted to revel in cheap thrills he definitely wasn’t going to encourage it. Thank the gods the man didn’t insist on social niceties. Instead he said noncommittally, “Yes, sir, a close watch.”

“We wouldn’t want them to get the important details wrong.”

“No, sir.”

“Such as, for example, the window in the wall across the privy?”

Damn the man, Vimes thought. How does he do it?

“Windows certainly are an important aspect of architecture, sir,” he said woodenly.

“Indeed they are. And possibly an important aid for the watchman in need, as well?”

Vimes’ face betrayed nothing. Vetinari sighed.

“Commander, I know you have instructed one of the dwarfs to ensure that a specific window can be kicked open from the outside. You seem to underestimate the power of gossip. I have told him you must have been suffering from sleep deprivation and to forget about the order. No, don’t interrupt me. There are more trustworthy people than random labourers to be found in this city, and I happen to employ most of them. I shall ensure your little secret entrance is perfectly functional, after the building is finished.”

Vimes knew Vetinari was right, knew he should probably feel grateful for this thoughtful interference, but instead he felt deeply annoyed. His little secret entrance, eh? He gnashed his teeth and glared at Vetinari.

“How do you even know about it?” he demanded. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone.”

“Apart from hearing about it from the dwarf in question? I discovered it quite by accident, I assure you. You might remember the short presence of a certain Captain Keel in our fair city, some thirty years ago. He made quite a spectacular entrance, and I was asked to keep him under surveillance whenever I could spare the time. Imagine my surprise when I saw him break into his own Watch House. I was quite impressed by his capacity for stealth, especially given the presence of other watchmen in the same building.”

Drumknott stepped forward from his standard position two steps behind the Patrician, and whispered something in his master’s ear.

“Ah, yes,” said Vetinari. “Thank you, Drumknott. Of course, Commander, when I say Keel, I do, in fact, mean you. Memory can be such a tricky thing.”

Vimes started to say something, but caught himself and glanced at Drumknott with deep suspicion. Vetinari smiled a thin smile and turned to his clerk, “Drumknott, I notice Mr Rockhewer is looking at us in a rather apprehensive manner. Please go and tell him we are simply here to observe the proceedings and ask him if there is anything he wants. Take notes.”

Drumknott nodded and walked off towards the dwarf.

"You told him!" Vimes exploded.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Oh my, have I forgotten about the solemn oath of secrecy we swore?"

"Well, no," Vimes admitted. "I just assumed…"

"A bad habit, Commander. Let me assure you, I only talked about the matter with Drumknott because my memory keeps trying to rearrange itself. It’s rather vexing. Drumknott was not yet born when the Glorious Revolution took place, which makes it easier for him to remember both accounts of the event. It’s simply history to him. I've instructed him to correct me on the rare occasions I make a comment that somehow conflicts with the context of the conversation. Since the context is you, it makes sense to refer to you instead of Keel.

"And you're sure he can be trusted?"

"I'm quite certain."

"You also thought Wonse could be trusted."

"Was I?" Vetinari asked with an unreadable expression. When Vimes didn't reply, he continued, "Wonse was an ambitious man, but mean. He resented those with power, and believed he could achieve their position by means of aggression. Drumknott, on the other hand, is only ambitious in the way of wanting to excel at his job. Ironically, he does exactly what Wonse should have done, by which I mean he is always attentive, always observing, always learning. And he does this only to improve himself as my secretary."

"Plotting to take your place, it sounds like."

Vetinari sighed. "I dare say not. Here are a few simple comparisons. When Wonse applied for the position of my personal clerk he looked me in the eye. Drumknott did not. He was bashful, nervous. When Wonse attended my meetings with other officials, he asserted himself, tried to make an impression. Drumknott fades in the background and attends to everyone's wishes as unobtrusively as possibly. I think this gives a clear image of their characters, and the differences between them. If you are still not satisfied, I shan't try to change your mind any further."

"You're probably right," Vimes said. None of his inner voices had ever raised the alarm as far as Drumknott went, so to give the man his due he added somewhat reluctantly. “I’m no particularly suspicious about him either.”

"Not particularly suspicious? I dare say that means you believe he won't assassinate me in my sleep as long as the opportunity to do so with ease and without danger of discovery doesn't present itself too strongly."

"Don't mock me, my lord. It's my job to be worried about your safety."

"And I feel much safer in the knowledge, I'm sure. Ah, I see Drumknott has finished talking to Mr Rockhewer. I shall instruct the coachman to make a stop at Pseudopolis Yard, shall I? I'm sure I'll be able to make it back to the Palace from there without your personal protection."

"Fine."

Vetinari turned and walked back towards the coach, knowing Vimes and Drumknott would follow him. He smiled to himself. It might not serve any material purpose, but there were few things he enjoyed more than provoking Vimes, thus giving him the opportunity to truly be Vimes: a suspicious bastard with a dislike for authority that only grew the more of it he acquired for himself. As far as signs of trustworthiness went, he reflected, that in itself was enough to satisfy him.


	2. Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder in the streets of Ankh-Morpork!

1.

Vimes sat down in a leather chair that was much too comfortable. He leaned back and closed his eyes. If he mentally swapped the smell of fresh paint with that of a dirty alley next to a shady bar, he could almost imagine being back in his old Watch House in Treacle Mine Road. He opened his eyes, and the illusion remained. He had ordered Colon and Nobby to oversee the, as he had called it, acquisition of materials necessary to ensure the smooth operation of the new Watch House. They'd been all too happy to spend the city's money going through thrift stores and ordering fresh recruits to haul heavy pieces of furniture around the city, and against all expectations they'd done an excellent job. Even though the furniture was in much better condition that what he remembered and no one had yet had the time to let official papers pile up on every available flat surface, the office looked almost exactly as Vimes remembered it. He half expected to hear Colon's wheezing breath as he came up the stairs to deliver him a report.

It was just coming up on dawn, and out of his window he could see the tavern that used to have an illuminated sign. He’d offered to replace it when they were rebuilding the watch house, but the owner had told him that business had actually picked up ever since it was stolen.

Vimes leaned back in the chair and, without any interference from his conscious mind, opened the bottom drawer of the desk. His hand expected to find cold glass and familiar smooth curves, but instead he found warm wood and equally familiar sharp edges. He glanced down and found that the drawer contained a box of his favourite brand of cigars. They were quite expensive. He scowled at it.

"Your little joke, eh" he muttered. He was tempted to slam the drawer shut, but right now he felt more like Sam Vimes than Sir Samuel etc. and Sam Vimes would never say no to free luxuries. He opened it, took out a cigar and lit it.

Just as he drew his first lungful of smoke, he heard footsteps on the stairs coming up to his office, followed by a soft knock on the door. He didn't know why he was even surprised by it and resigned himself to admitting to Lord Vetinari that yes, he had checked the drawer, the evidence was right there in his hand after all, so sod off. He'd only think the last bit, but he'd think it really hard and maybe the man's apparent psychic abilities would pick it up. He grinned at the thought, but made sure his face was a picture of bored indifference before he called out at his unexpected visitor to come in.

When Captain Carrot stepped through the door, Vimes was glad he’d made the effort to school his features. At least now he didn’t have to explain, to himself if not to Carrot, any trace of disappointment that might show on his face. Or worry, for that matter. Carrot was on duty right now, and for him to go running all over the city to find Vimes meant something bad had happened.

“Captain Carrot,” Vimes said gruffly, “what is it?”

Carrot saluted in response. “Commander Vimes, Sergeant Angua and I were patrolling the Shades just now and we found a dead body!”

“In the shades?” Vimes lifted an eyebrow. “Amazing. That’s the last place I’d expect to find a dead body.”

Carrot, who by now was able to recognize sarcasm if it was this obvious, replied, “I know, sir, but there’s something odd about this one. For one, it’s a woman. A pretty small one, too, sir, not the type to get herself into a fight. There wasn’t a card from the Assassin’s Guild, either. Also, her purse was still on her, so it couldn’t have been muggers.”

“She can’t have been dead long then, if she still had her purse.”

“She was hidden underneath a pile of garbage, sir.”

“Even then. In the Shades, one man’s garbage is another man’s, to use the term loosely, treasure. How did you find her?”

“Angua was able to smell her, sir. She did say the body hadn’t been dead for more than a few hours. Cheery is on her way there now, she should be able to tell us more.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Vimes expected Carrot to argue, tell him his presence really wasn’t required, maybe even add he shouldn’t overdo it, but he didn’t. That in itself was reason for worry, as far as Vimes was concerned. Something about this poor woman’s death made Carrot very nervous.

2.

When they arrived at the scene, Cheery was already crouching next to the body and two large trolls were making sure no civilians go it into their heads to see what all the fuss was about. Or to rectify their negligence when it came to robbing dead bodies.

Vimes nodded at the trolls and strode over to where Angua was standing. He knew better than to interrupt Cheery before she was finished with her prodding and probing.

“Sergeant,” he nodded at Angua. “What can you tell me?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I found a pin on her coat that tags her as a seamstress. I was thinking we could get an iconograph of her face and show it to some of the other guild members, see if anyone knew her.”

“Good idea,” Vimes replied, then nodded at Cheery who had joined them. “Anything you can tell me?”

“It’s pretty basic, sir. She’s been stabbed to death. Stabbed multiple times with a short, broad blade. I’m guessing one of those fancy daggers that are more for show anything else. Assassins and the like tend to use longer and thinner blades since they’re much more efficient and -”

“Yes, yes,” Vimes motioned for her to get back on topic.

“Right. There’s some light bruising around her mouth. Whoever attacked her probably had his hand on her mouth to keep her from screaming. Other than that, there’s not a scratch on her, no signs of struggle or anything. And, ehm, I checked, you know…” Cheery’s voice trailed off and she blushed slightly. Vimes waited patiently. He thought he knew what was coming. “Well,” Cheery continued, “since she’s a woman, a seamstress even, and this is the shades, I checked for any other sign of molestation but here was nothing.”

Vimes thought for a moment. “Do you have any idea around what time she was killed?”

“Between three and four in the morning, as far as I can tell from the blood and the bruises.”

Vimes looked up sharply at that. “Between three and four? You’re sure about that?”

“Ehm, yes, sir. I might be able to give a more exact time after I’ve examined the body some more, but I’m pretty sure. Err… Is something wrong, sir?”

Vimes looked decidedly uneasy. “I was in the neighbourhood around that time.”

Angua nodded. Carrot looked as if he wanted to say something but Angua shut him up with a look. They all knew Vimes hated being stuck in his office and occasionally went out on patrol by himself, just to keep in practice. Angua had already known that Vimes had passed nearby sometime during the previous night, but since he hadn’t come within ten feet of the actual scene of the crime she hadn’t wanted to bring it up.

Carrot coughed. “I see. Between three and four, then. That’s the middle of the night. Wouldn’t she have been working?”

“No,” Angua said, “I can smell soap on her. “She’d probably finished for the night, showered at one of the local guild houses and was on her way home.”

Vimes nodded. “Good. Start with nearby guild houses when you’re looking for someone who knew her.”

“Yes, sir.” Angua pulled Cheery along and went about taking an iconograph. Vimes stared pensively at the body.

“Sir?” Carrot asked.

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t… notice anything last night?”

Vimes sighed. “No, Captain, I didn’t. If I had, I would have mentioned it.”

“Of course, sir. Of course.”

“You’re right, though, there’s something off about this murder. She wasn’t in a fight, she wasn’t mugged, she wasn’t raped or mutilated in any way. The only other explanation I can come up with is revenge. Maybe she was killed by the wife of one of her clients.”

Carrot shifted his weight uncomfortably. Mention of seamstresses made him blush at the best of times, and the added mention of rape certainly didn’t improve his discomfort. He didn’t reply. Vimes sighed. Carrot had been living in Ankh-Morpork for over eight years now. You’d think some of it would have rubbed off. He patted the Captain awkwardly on the shoulder, having to stand on tiptoe to reach it, and left him in favour of examining the crime scene.

He circled the body twice and didn’t see anything he hadn’t been told already. No signs of struggle save for the barely visible bruises on the dead woman’s face. Lots of blood, but he trusted Cheery to know where it came from. He’d hoped to find at least the murder weapon, since a lot of the back alley murderers opted to leave a bloody knife behind rather than put it back in their pocket if they were in a hurry, but it didn’t seem to be there. If it had been, he knew Angua would have found it by now anyway. Apparently steel had a very distinctive orange smell.

“Cheery,” he called out, “when you’re done here, wrap that body in a sheet for transportation. I’ll stop by the Yard and have them send over a wagon. You can examine it some more when it’s there, if you like, otherwise release it for burial as soon as we’ve found some next of kin. Angua, when you’re sure there’s nothing else to be found here, take that iconograph over to every brothel in the city until you find someone who recognizes our girl. Carrot, go with her.”

They all nodded in acknowledgement of their orders, Carrot throwing in a salute and Angua barely suppressing a grin at the thought of Carrot in a Seamstresses Guild guild house.

“Good,” Vimes said. “After I stop by the Yard, I’ll be going home. I’m not sure this whole business is something important, but if any of you find out something that makes you think it is, come tell me. Otherwise, I expect you all in my office at eight, no, make that seven thirty, this evening for a full report.”

3.

Vimes’ sleep was uninterrupted that day, and any lingering suspicious thoughts were chased away by the broad smile that appeared on Young Sam’s face when Vimes entered the fluffy room to read Where's my cow? to his son. There was nothing like it for believing the world really wasn’t the rotten mess it proved itself to be every single day.

When Young Sam appeared to be soundly asleep, Vimes kissed Sybil goodbye and for once allowed his coachman to drive him to work, giving him the opportunity to read the newspaper on the way. There was nothing in it about the young woman, of course. Who cares about seamstresses being murdered in the Shades, right? He hoped Carrot and Angua had found someone who cared by now. Lonely funerals were the worst kind.

The world seemed to spring to attention as he entered the Watch House. Sometimes he suspected even the furniture stood a little straighter when he came in. He thought back to his nights as Captain of the Night Watch, when the closest he ever came to attention was not falling over and his men generally acknowledged his presence only with a nod and maybe an “Evenin’, Captain”. He’d tried to tell the people of the New and Improved Watch that they really needn’t bother, that he was happy if they just did their job as best they could, and they’d nodded and saluted and went on being as tightly wound as a coiled spring whenever he was around anyway. Sometimes he wondered how they mentally integrated this with watching over him as if he was a toddling child, though admittedly that was really mostly just Carrot. No one could ever resist doing as Carrot asked, if he believed it was The Right Thing To Do.

He nodded at several of the watchmen as he passed them on his way to his office. To him they were watchmen, no matter what the new politically correct way of referring to a collection of men, women, dwarfs, trolls, zombies and vampires was. They were watchmen, there to uphold the law.

He had just managed to glance over all the new reports that had arrived since the previous day when there was a knock at the door. In reaction to his “Come in.”, Carrot and Cheery entered his office.

“Angua not with you?” he asked.

“No, sir. She’s off-duty right now.”

Vimes nodded. He knew Carrot shared his own view that off-duty pretty much equalled the time he spent sleeping, and he sometimes wondered if the fact that Angua was of the opinion that she should have some time to actually spend the money she earned was ever a source of conflict for them. He supposed he would never know.

“Alright. So, what have you come up with about that murder in the Shades?”

“Well, sir, all the other tests Cheery has done have only confirmed our previous assumptions. The young lady was silenced by a hand over her mouth and killed by three stabs from a broad knife.”

Vimes looked at Cheery, who nodded.

“That’s right, sir. I also confirmed that he knife wasn’t a professional’s blade, or even of decent quality. The edges of the wounds were much more ragged than what you’d expect from one of those. I’m guessing it was either an old or a ceremonial weapon, or one that just wasn’t very well kept.”

“So it could have been just some random idiot who keeps a pocketknife on him out of habit, never really uses it, until, what, he is overcome by the urge to kill? I suppose it’s possible. Did you find out who she was, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. Her name was Cindy Shoemaker, from Chirm. She was indeed a seamstress, working at the Honey Lane chapter. New to the city, apparently, and I got the impression no one was really surprised she turned up dead. Her, erm, colleagues, seemed to think she was a bit naïve, and, as we know, that isn’t exactly a survival trait when working in the Shades.”

“Their words?”asked Vimes, who was sure Carrot hadn’t come up with that particular turn of phrase.

“Angua’s, sir. No one really wanted to say anything bad about her. It seems she came to the city hoping to find work as an alchemist but it turned out there were already plenty of those and most of them more skilled than she was. It seemed to me most of the other girls felt a bit sorry for her. Before she was killed, that is, I’m sure they feel sorry for her now.”

Vimes thought for a moment. “She was from Chirm, you said?”

“Yes, sir, it’s a small town out on the Sto Plains known for its –“

“I know what it is, Captain. It’s only about thirty leagues from here, and I’ll be damned if I tell her family she’s dead by clacks. Send one of the new recruits out there with a message and arrange for her to be buried on Small Gods in four days. That should give them just enough time to get here, and I’m sure Igor will be able to keep her presentable for at least that long.”

“More presentable than she was before, probably,” Carrot said. “You remember Ms Parks who fell from the Brass Bridge and broke her neck? Why, Igor was able to make her look like she was sleeping peacefully, even after that wild dog –“

“Yes, yes,” Vimes said quickly. “Truly miraculous. Let’s get back to the case, alright? Did anyone at the Guild House say anything that gave you a clue as to why someone might want to kill her?”

“Not really, sir. No one even remembers her talking about anything outside of work. I can’t say I got the impression anyone particularly liked her, but no one disliked her, either. They all seemed pretty upset about her murder and Angua said they smelled upset, as well.”

“Just upset? Not frightened? One might think they would be worried about being next.”

“Yes, sir, but this is the Shades. They might be frightened if more seamstresses were killed, but one murder is hardly something that would worry them.”

“True enough,” Vimes sighed. He’d often thought about cleaning up the Shades, but it seemed like an impossible task. What’s more, he didn’t think anyone really wanted him to, or that it was even necessary. The Shades was part of the attraction of Ankh-Morpork, and most people who went in there knew how to make sure they came back out without any permanent damage.

“Right. I don’t think there’s much more we can do at this point. Captain, I want you to keep your ears open and let me know if you hear anything. You’re good at hearing things, especially things people don’t want you to hear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Off you go then, the both of you.”

After Carrot and Cheery had left, Vimes leaned back and closed his eyes. Right now, there wasn’t much to be done except for hoping for more clues to turn up. He didn’t think they would, but he was sure more crime would turn up. This wasn’t the first time a murder had gone unsolved and, more importantly, unpunished, but it got to him every time. He wasn’t even sure he shouldn’t rule this one a suicide, but that was hardly something he could tell the girl’s parents. He decided to put the whole mess out of his mind. For now.

For the next three days, Vimes busied himself with helping Colon and Nobby put together a proposal for new traffic regulations based on a few violations that occurred in legally very grey areas. Then the second body was found.

4.

Vimes was thinking very dark thoughts as he stood leaning against a wall a few yards away from the corpse while Cheery did her preliminary examination before the body was moved. Vimes had been one of the first to arrive at the scene, which wasn’t surprising seeing as how said scene was only a few minutes running from the Yard itself. The body had been found in the river Ankh near Pon’s Bridge by a guardsman on patrol, who had immediately ran back to headquarters to find someone who might know what to do. 

Vimes glared at the body. It had been a boy, or an adolescent, as Vetinari would be sure to put it to the ladies and gentlemen of the press. ‘Adolescent’ was that much further removed from ‘child’. The adolescent had been easy enough to identify, since he had a Thieves Guild license on him, which could easily be read after the residue of Ankh water had been scraped off. The license proclaimed him to be Walter Webbs, a fake name if ever he’d heard one, fourteen years old and only one step above a magpie that can’t resist stealing the nearest shiny thing as far as the guild was concerned. He turned the license over and over in his hands as he waited.

Finally Cheery got up, gestured at two nearby guardsmen to wrap up the body and walked over to Vimes.

“Anything, Sergeant?”

“Not much, sir. He was stabbed in the chest, once, and thrown in the river.”

“Anything peculiar about the wound? Ragged edges, maybe?”

“I know what you mean, sir, and it looks like it, but it’s hard to tell details like that about a body that has been in the Ankh for any amount of time.”

Vimes sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But I have a feeling about this.”

Cheery hesitated, clearly not sure about the forensic status of feelings, but was released from having to answer by the arrival of Carrot.

Carrot saluted and handed Vimes a small pouch. “I’ve found it sir! Maybe 20 yards back up the river.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Vimes as he opened the pouch and let its contents drop into his hand. There were several coins and inexpensive rings and a tiny gilded dragon.

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Carrot, “why would someone kill him without robbing him?”

“It’s not his purse, he had that on him. This is his loot. Which still doesn’t explain why it wasn’t taken. Walter here was probably on his way to the main Guild House on Broad Way late last night when whoever it was that killed him, well, killed him.”

“Late last night, sir? What makes you say that?”

“Because it’s early morning now, and that’s about the time it would take for a body to float along the river for 20 yards. And 20 yards from here is, coincidentally, also where I stopped late last night to throw a cigar but into the Ankh.”

“Sir? I don’t see why that should be important, unless you, well, I mean…”

“Of course I didn’t have anything to do with it, or see anything, or hear or smell anything for that matter,” said Vimes impatiently. “I just mean that this boy was killed near a place where I passed, and only shortly after I passed there. Just like that seamstress. I have a feeling about this, and it tells me that it’s personal.”

Carrot seemed as unable to comment on Vimes’ feelings as Cheery had been, and instead pointed at the Thieves Guild license Vimes was still holding.

“Oh, that’s excellent, sir! At least we won’t have to run around finding out who he was this time.”

“Yes, remind me to thank the guilds for their aid in identifying murder victims next time I’m at an official dinner,” Vimes said sourly. “Here,” he pushed the license at Carrot, “there’s an iconograph of his face on it. I want you to ask around the neighbourhood if anyone saw anything last night.”

“Alright, sir,” Carrot said obediently and took the small card.

“And you, Sergeant Littlebottom,” said Vimes turning towards Cheery, “are coming back to the Yard with me. I want you to examine that body with a microscope if need be.”

“Will do, sir.” Cheery saluted and ran over towards the cart that held the now wrapped-up body.

Back at the Yard he alternated between going down to Cheery’s laboratory only to find out she hadn’t found out anything new, and trying to focus on the reports that had piled up on his desk. He did try to keep up with them, and now that his dis-organiser selected only those that might be important and remembered the rest for later reference, he was able to at least get the gist of most of them, and sometimes he almost convinced himself it was actually useful. He was more relieved than he’d care to admit to be interrupted by the arrival of Captain Carrot.

“Found anything, Captain?”

“Nothing that seems of much importance, I’m afraid. I did find some people who recognized Walter from the iconograph.”

“Really? People who live around here?”

“No, sir. People who work for the people who live around here. I’ve found two maids who say they saw him walk down the street two days ago. No one saw him, or anything suspicious at all, last night.”

Vimes nodded. He couldn’t say he was really surprised. The Yard was surrounded by the class of people who went from one indoor location to the next by coach and didn’t much care for what happened outside. Their maids seemed to be the only ones who ever went out on the streets, and then only during the day. That wasn’t entirely fair, he knew, but he felt like making unfair generalizations.

Carrot seemed to find the silence a bit uncomfortable and broke it by speaking. “I really did try, sir.”

“I know you did, Captain. These people probably really don’t know anything. Just remember the orders I gave you a while back and keep your ears open. Someone in this city must know something.”

“I will, sir. And, sir, I also stopped by the Thieves’ Guild itself. I talked to one of Walter’s friends. Well, I’m not sure ‘friend’ is the right word. It seems they had both just joined the guild a month or so ago and last night was their first night alone on the street. Apparently they had both consumed rather large amounts of alcohol, and he doesn’t remember when or where they split up.”

“At least that explains why there were no other wounds on young Walter.” Vimes said. “He probably didn’t have the wits to defend himself. Maybe he was even unconscious when it happened.”

“That would be a blessing, sir.”

“I’m sure he would agree with you, Captain,” Vimes said drily. “Anything else you want to tell me? Otherwise I really need to get back to work.”

“Just one more thing, sir. I took Angua down to where I found the purse, and she told me that she did smell you stood still for a while in almost the exact same spot, and she also smelled another person there. She said she was sure she’d also smelled him in the Shades where that poor girl had been murdered, sir.”

“Ye gods, man! Why didn’t you tell me sooner!”

“I thought you said you already knew it was the same person, sir,” said Carrot, looking puzzled by Vimes’ sudden explosion.

“Well, yes, I mean, I said I had a feeling, but it’s good to have confirmation. Hah, I knew it! I knew something was going on.”

“Yes, you did, sir. Well done, sir!”

“Did Angua recognize the smell from anywhere else? Maybe someone she met somewhere before?”

“If she did, she didn’t say so, sir. She did say she the smell was very distinctive, somehow a bit off, but she didn’t say how. Anyway, she said it should be easy enough to recognize and she went off into the city to see if she could pick up a trail somewhere.”

“Good. I expect to see her as soon as she’s back.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll make sure she knows.”

“There’s nothing else you forgot to mention, I hope?”

“No, sir, that’s everything.”

“Right. Make sure to tell me if anything new comes up.”

“I will, sir.”

“Good, good. Now get to the task of finding something new to tell me!”

“Yes, sir!” Carrot saluted and left.

After the door closed, Vimes brooded for a few minutes over the unfairness of having other people go out into the streetm his street, to look for clues. He knew he couldn’t do everything by himself, but he wanted to do something, something other than sitting at his desk reading through mind-numbing reports. Still, it was the hub of things, every bit of information ended up here eventually, and since he didn’t have anything to go on for the moment, he might as well sit it out until something turned up.

5.

The something to turn up was yet another body, and the next two things that turned up were two more dead bodies. One of the things that didn’t turn up was another clue. All victims had been stabbed, and Cheery was sure the stabbing had at the very least been done with very similar weapons. Angua was absolutely positive that the same person had done the stabbing, unless this person whose presence she could smell at all scenes had been just an innocent bystander and the actual killer had no body odour. She had tried to track the scent, but hadn’t been able to.

Vimes believed her when she said that the trail just ended within feet and without a trace every time and she hadn’t been able to pick it up again anywhere within the city, if only because he knew she was trustworthy. He also believed, or at least had the strong suspicion, there was something she wasn’t telling him, but he trusted her to do her own investigating until she had something substantial to tell him.

Until now, that was.

6.

Vimes didn’t run, because commanding officers didn’t run through their own headquarters, but he was certainly walking along the corridors at a brisk pace, and when he finally found the person he was looking for, it wouldn’t be mistaken to say he skidded to a halt.

“Come with me,” he said and pulled a surprised Angua from her chair in the cafeteria. He dragged her along into a corner of the large entrance hall, where it was impossible to have a whispered conversation since you practically had to shout to be heard above the din of people coming, complaining, and going. It was one of the better places to have a private conversation.

Angua looked at him in puzzlement.

“Yes, sir? Was there anything you wanted?”

“Sergeant,” he began, and stopped to run his hand over his face, thinking. Angua waited patiently. If she had learned one thing from working with Vimes, it was that it was pointless to rush him.

“Sergeant,” he said again. “I just received a summons from his lordship. He wishes me to come up to the palace to discuss this recent string of murders. Now, I have nothing to tell him, but I know you have something. I don’t care how vague it is, I just need to…”

“Make it seem we’re actually getting somewhere with this case?”

“Yes! I mean, no. Just make it clear we are one the case and pursuing all possible leads relentlessly and all that.”

“I see, sir.”

“Good. So tell me what you haven’t been telling me.”

“I’m really not sure it’s relevant, sir, but you remember I said there was something odd about the killer’s smell? Well, what’s odd about it is that it seems to be a bit magical.”

“Magical? Like, a wizard?”

“No, sir, they just smell like people, though sometimes there’s a bit of magic there. I mean magical like a magic ring, or the library.”

“I hope you’re not telling me these people are being killed by a magical device. Or a building.”

“Oh no, sir, he’s definitely human. The magic is part of him though, not like anything I’ve ever smelled before.”

Vimes thought for a moment. He supposed this could be important, if only he knew what it meant. Then he shrugged. He’d keep this bit of information in mind, and maybe he’d find something else that would make sense of it.

“Right. Thanks for that.”

“I hope it’ll help, sir.”

“I hope so too.” Vimes started to leave, then turned back. “Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you can tell if something, or someone, apparently, is magical, why are people still selling and buying fake charms on the street?”

“Well, sir, firstly, low-grade magic is pretty near imperceptible, even to me, and most of the charms that actually work are only a little bit magical at best, and secondly, if I had to check every charm for sale for authenticity, I’d be at it all day. Somehow I feel I can be of much more use to the Watch doing other things.”

“Right, right. Well, I’d best be off to see his lordship.”

“Good luck, sir.”

7.

“Ah, Commander Vimes. So good to see you. I would ask you if you’d like to have a seat, but I don’t suppose you would,” said Vetinari, gesturing at the empty chairs in front of his desk.

Vimes remained standing behind them. Somehow they made him feel safer. He knew they weren’t anything like a shield, particularly since the Patrician’s attacks were never physical, but they did offer the illusion of added protection, he always felt.

“Very perceptive, sir.”

“Yes, it’s one of my lesser appreciated qualities, or so I am told.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Now, Commander, about these murders. Did you know the last one made the papers?”

Blast. He’d hoped they could have kept this under wraps for a bit longer. Preferably until they’d solved the case. Although, only one? At least it seemed no one at the Times had made the connection yet.

“Wasn’t aware of it, sir.”

“You can Read All About It, as they say, in the evening edition that will be released just five hours from now. You do know they will find out about the others?”

“I suppose it can’t be avoided, sir.”

“Regrettably not. Which is why I would like your Captain Carrot to tell them about it before they do. Better they hear it from him than anyone else, especially you. I’ve arranged for an interview here in the palace at three in the afternoon. I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Not a problem, sir,” Vimes replied. And how nice for you to be able to hear everything that’s being said, he thought sourly.

“I trust your investigation is going somewhere? The Times does so dislike it when the Watch proves to be competent, and I myself would be quite displeased to see the public outrage increase as these murders continue.”

Vimes opened his mouth to report on the investigation, such as it was, but stopped when he mentally stumbled over one of the Patrician’s words.

“Increase, sir?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the pattern, Commander.”

“Which pattern would that be, sir?”

Vetinari sighed. “I dare say this is nothing new to you, so consider this an indulgence. The first victim was a seamstress so new to the city that she hadn’t even officially received guild status. The second was a young thief who’d only just joined his guild. The third victim was a boy who was going to enter the Assassin’s School next year, which is considered quite a feat all by itself, in certain circles at least. The fourth victim was yet again a thief, one who’d been in the guilt for just over half a year. And this latest victim was a schoolteacher with over a decade of experience.”

Vetinari looked at Vimes expectantly. Vimes did see the pattern, but he didn’t like it and he wanted to hear Vetinari say it first.

“They’re all guild members?” he offered innocently.

“In this city just about everyone over the age of twelve is a guild member, Commander,” Vetinari said irritably. “No, what I’m trying to point out, and I’m sure I don’t need to, is that they are of increasing social class. I grant you that the increases are only slight, but there is a clear pattern. Not only does that bode ill for the direction our perpetrator is going, I don’t think I need to point out how upset people will be once people who are of some importance start turning up dead.”

Vimes filed “of some importance” away for later consideration. He didn’t think Vetinari prescribed to the opinion that social class equalled importance, or that the death of important people was somehow worse than that of unimportant people, but the remark was a good one to think dark thoughts about when he was patrolling the streets. At night. Alone. In the rain. For now, he decided to ignore it.

“I can see how that would be a problem, sir.”

“I thought you might.”

“Seeing as how that direction would be you, sir.”

Vetinari looked at him steadily. “Or you, Commander.”

That came as enough of a surprise to Vimes that he actually looked at Vetinari for several seconds. He started to say, “But I’m not –“ then stopped and returned his eyes to the spot on the wall slightly above and to the left of the Patrician’s head. He mentally cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. He was an important person now, wasn’t he? And the reason for that unfortunate state of affairs was sitting right in front of him. Or about a quarter-mile turnwise, if you considered Carrot’s meddling. Which he didn’t, of course. Not at all.

“I see you understand me, Commander. However, I dare say both of us are capable of protecting ourselves. There is a reason, after all, why the Guild of Assassin’s has put us into abeyance.”

Vimes managed to supress a grin. “I understand it’s a human resource problem, sir.”

“Indeed. Be that as it may, Commander, I expect some progress from you and your men before this situation becomes… political.”

Ah, thought Vimes, so it’s not your life you’re worried about, is it? If this goes on for long enough, people might start wondering why their government isn’t capable of stopping one murderer, and maybe they’ll start wondering about what other things their government might not be able to stop and this whole game of smoke and mirrors will go up in, well, smoke.

“Understood, my lord.”

“Good. There is one other small detail I would like to take up with you, Commander. I understand there is another factor all of the murders have in common.”

“What would that be, sir?” asked Vimes, hoping against hope his face wouldn’t betray the sinking feeling in his stomach. This was going to be about the one little detail that bothered him most in this whole wretched mess.

“I understand, Commander, that every single one of them occurred within, say, shouting distance of your person.”

Vimes glanced at the Patrician’s face again. He expected to find a stern look, but it was completely blank. That was not, in itself, a rare occurrence, but right now he was sure it meant his lordship was concerned.

“Then they weren’t shouting very loudly, sir.”

Vetinari sighed. “No, Commander, I understand their mouths were covered, quite forcefully even. The fact remains that this person purposefully kills his victims in your proximity.”

“It’s probably just a coincidence, sir.”

“I hadn’t taken you for a man who believes in coincidences, Commander,” Vetinari said sharply. Vimes didn’t reply, and Vetinari continued, “I urge you to take this seriously. We must assume a dangerous murderer is in the habit of stalking you. That in itself seems more than enough cause for concern to me.”

Vimes inwardly winced. He was taking it seriously, hell, he was taking it personally, but he’d hoped he could get away with pretending it wasn’t anything to be concerned about. He wanted to deal with it on his own, but the Patrician just had to put his nose in everyone’s business and now Vimes had driven him to admitting he was worried. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the Patrician had ever stated his worry this explicitly and it made him feel uncomfortable.

“It worries me too, sir,” he admitted and immediately felt even more uncomfortable.

The silence stretched, and Vimes was glad for the training he’d had in avoiding the Patrician’s eyes.

“As long as we’re agreed on that, Sir Samuel,” Vetinari said softly. Then, in his usual tone of voice, “Do you have any theories that could explain this behaviour, Commander?”

Vimes shrugged, relieved that the subject of his worry and the need therefore appeared to have been dropped. “Maybe he just doesn’t like me. Who knows how the criminal mind works.”

“There are, in fact, several people who make it their business to know. In situations like these, the most common theory appears to be that the criminal has a desire to be caught, though I’m given to understand he may be unaware of this himself.

“Sounds bloody stupid, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. If the theory does apply to this particular case, and we don’t know that it does, of course, it might mean that the murderer will give you an opening at some point in the future. It’s imperative that you stay focused in case he does.

“Don’t need telling, sir.”

“Indeed. Now, is there anything else you can tell me about this case?”

“I don’t think I could tell you anything you don’t know yet, sir.”

Vetinari smiled his thin smile. “Try.”

Vimes considered for a moment, then decided that he might as well share his recently gained bit of information with Vetinari. The gods knew the man was unrivalled at analysing facts, so maybe he’d be able to make sense of it.

“Well, sir, Sergeant Angua did say there was something odd about the murderer’s smell. She couldn’t really explain it, but she said he smelled magical.”

“Magical?” the Patrician asked blankly. “Do you mean to say he is a wizard?”

“No, sir, she said he smelled magical in the way an enchanted object does. We don’t know what it means yet.”

“I see. How very interesting. I do so love riddles.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, if there’s nothing else?”

“No, sir.”

“I won’t keep you from your duties any longer then, Commander,” said Vetinari, already reaching for a stack of papers that were obviously infinitely more worthy of his attention now that the depth of Vimes’ knowledge had been fully exhausted.

Vimes saluted and left the office. He’d almost made it outside the building when it occurred to him that the people might look at their police force before looking at their government when they were looking for somewhere to put the blame. He became just a little bit more worried.

8.

Carrot’s interview with the press was a success, as Vimes was sure Vetinari had known it would be. Public outrage actually seemed to die down after Carrot had explained how at least five murders were clearly committed by the same sadly disturbed individual, and how the Watch was making no headway at all in uncovering his identity but were diligently pursuing several leads.

Vimes almost laughed at that. Their ‘leads’ consisted of a slightly magical smell that had yet to show up anywhere other than within a few feet of a crime scene and a pattern that indicated almost a quarter of the city’s fine citizens as the next possible victim.

That had been five days ago, and nothing new had turned up since.

9.

Vimes had spent the evening and a good part of the night at the new Treacle Mine Road Watch House doing nothing much, but feeling like he should be there to do it. He knew that in the Watch of days long gone the smaller Watch Houses had tended to operate on a more independent basis and he wanted to make sure people knew they now had to answer not only to their own local Captain but also to him.

He returned the salutes from the watchmen as he left the building and turned left on Treacle Mine Road. It would only have been a short walk home if he’d turned right, but it wasn’t as if Sibyl would still be awake and waiting for him. Instead he decided to walk in a large circle around the Isle of Gods, intending to pass through the shadiest streets he could find outside of the Shades. He didn’t expect to find anything worth his attention, but the long walk would give him time to think. Hah. Think. It wasn’t as if there was much to think about.

He’d just crossed Broad Way and found a fairly narrow street with good shadows to skulk in when he heard a sound that shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t really out of the ordinary for people to be out and about even at this time of night, even in the Ankh part of the city, but their voices weren’t generally abruptly cut off after what sounded like the start of a surprised exclamation, he was sure of it.

Vimes took a step away from the sound and into a deeper shadow and stood motionless, keeping his eyes fixed on the spot of darkness where the voice had come from. In between two of the houses on that side of the road was a small wooden gate, probably to seal off a path that would lead to a small garden at the back of one of the houses.

He stood silently for several minutes, but he didn’t hear anything more. Vimes trusted his instincts a lot more than his senses though, and waited. If this was a game of endurance, he could beat anyone. Especially if his opponent was doing something that was technically not entirely legal, in a place where he wasn’t actually supposed to be. Vimes knew how slowly the seconds could tick by when you were nervous and hiding.

The area beyond the gate was too dark to actually see anything, and suddenly it was even darker. Aha, he though grimly, got you. People never seemed to learn that black was a stupid choice if you really wanted to be invisible in the night. He heard a faint sound, definitely not the same sound he’d heard before, but the unmistakable sound of rusty hinges. The bastard thought he was safe and was opening the gate.

When Vimes judged the gate to be open far enough to allow a man of average size to pass through, he dashed forward and grabbed for the mysterious gate-opener. Unfortunately he had been clever enough to wait before stepping through the gate in case of just such an ambush. Vimes’ fingers only just brushed the heavy overcoat of what was in his mind now certainly a criminal trying to get away from him.

The sight of the fleeing figure, of any fleeing figure, was irresistible to Vimes, and without much input from his conscious mind he began the chase. There was indeed a small garden behind the house. He could only see dark shapes that could be anything from rosebushes to sleeping goats or bloody murder. Vimes had a feeling it would be the latter. He had no proof, of course, but he was now sure that the man he had been chasing in a more abstract way for the past few weeks and the dark shape he was now chasing in a satisfyingly concrete way were one and the same person.

He didn’t linger on the mysterious objects in the garden but looked around wildly, searching for his prey. For a moment he thought he might have lost him, then the silhouette of a man appeared against the night sky and disappeared again in a split second. The bastard had managed to pull himself up on the wall and jumped over. There hadn’t been enough time or light to clearly make out any of his features, but Vimes thought he he’d seen something that he knew he’d be very worried about once he’d had the time to think about it. This was not that time.

Vimes ran towards the wall, stretched out his hands, grasped the edge and jumped. The force with which his midriff hit the wall was quite painful, and for a few moments he could do nothing but gasp for breath. He cursed his lack of upper body strength and scrambled on top of a crate that was stacked against the wall. A quick glance over the edge told him that there was no one on the other side, but he saw an open back door. Would the man really have gone into a house? It wasn’t something Vimes would do, but he wasn’t a fleeing madman. He pulled himself over the wall and managed to land in a way that was only slightly painful. The open door was the only way to go, so he ran inside…

…and found himself facing the wall of a tiny bathroom. He turned around slowly. On the other side of the door he had just come through was a narrow hallway. He blinked. He hadn’t crossed a hallway, he was sure of it. He knew that as people got older they were supposed to start forgetting things, but surely they didn’t mean things like barging all the way through a house?

A small flame appeared at the end of the hallway, and Vimes saw a man walking towards him, holding a small candle. The man stopped in front of him, covered his mouth as he yawned and looked at him with half-closed eyes. He’d obviously just woken up, probably from the noise Vimes had made in his bathroom.

“Who are you?” asked the man.

“Err, City Watch,” said Vimes, bewildered. “Where am I?”

The man’s face took on an expression of utter misery. “Empirical Crescent. Just follow me, and I’ll get you on the street again.”

Vimes cursed. Of course, it just had to be Empirical Crescent. One of Ankh-Morpork’s many architectural wonders that showed just how creative you can be with a mere three dimensions, especially if your name is Bloody Stupid Johnson.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man added, “this happens all the time.”

He guided Vimes out of his house, pointing out the cracks in the tiles he really didn’t want to step on, and wished him a good night. Vimes looked around. He was on Empirical Crescent, true enough, which was several streets away from the creaky gate and gods knew how many streets away from where the man he was chasing had ended up. Godsdamn Empirical Crescent.

10.

Mere hours after the chase, Vimes found himself in Vetinari’s office again. This time he had accepted the offer of a chair, if only because he didn’t want the Patrician to see him swaying on his legs with exhaustion.

Lord Vetinari stared at Vimes over the tops of his steepled fingers. Vimes stared at his favourite spot of blank wall behind Lord Vetinari. Vetinari seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but Vimes didn’t feel particularly accommodating today. He thought about young woman against a background of their own blood and mysterious men against a background of sky. He’d had time to think now, but not enough, and he was not only very worried, but also very frustrated. There were too many questions and no answers and he’d seen… something when he was chasing the man, only he wasn’t sure what. He continued staring straight ahead. The silence stretched.

“Sir Samuel,” said Lord Vetinari abruptly.

“Yes, sir?”

“I understand you paid a little visit to Mr and Mrs Thompson at Empirical Crescent yesterday.”

“Broadly speaking, yes, sir.”

“Would you mind explaining to me why?”

“I’m not quite sure myself, sir.”

There was more silence. Vimes saw Vetinari raise an eyebrow from his peripheral vision. He inwardly sighed.

“We found another body yesterday, sir.”

“I hear it was you, singular, who found it.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I meant.”

“I also hear that, true to form, the heinous deed was committed while you were in close vicinity.”

“Rather closer than the previous times, sir,” said Vimes. He sighed and resigned himself to his faith. He knew there was little point in keeping anything secret from the Patrician. More often than not the man knew your secrets before you even knew them yourself. He schooled his features into a perfectly neutral expression. “I chased him across the garden wall and, as it turned out, into Empirical Crescent. I don’t know if he ran into the Thompson house as well, but either way I lost him in that bloody maze.”

“I see. Well, you did what you could, I suppose.”

“Sir,” Vimes said woodenly.

“I mean that, Sir Samuel. Even I have never succeeded in following anyone through Empirical Crescent.”

“Sir.”

Vetinari sighed and gave up his attempt at making Vimes feel comfortable. Vimes was grateful for that. It had been making him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

“Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Commander?”

“Nothing comes to mind, sir.”

“Really? In that case, there is something I wish to tell you.”

“Sir?”

“I’m sure you have noticed, Commander, that this murder breaks pattern.”

“Breaks pattern, sir?”

“You know, Commander, sometimes I wonder at your choice of things to keep me in the dark about. It has occurred to me that you think it best I should not know anything at all about what goes on in this city. Happily, there are others who do not share this conviction.”

Vimes continued staring blankly at the wall. In truth, he often didn’t know why he felt the need to keep things hidden from the Patrician either. Obviously it made sense to do so sometimes, since the Patrician wasn’t nearly as committed to punishing law-breakers as he was. Still, the man had his, well, reasons, he supposed, and most of the time he could see them, even if they were stupid political reasons. He shifted his gaze for a split second and saw that the Patrician was still looking at him expectantly. He gave in. It wasn’t as if he was going to tell the man something he didn’t already know.

“I assume you are referring to the fact, sir, that the young woman who was murdered not ten feet from where I was standing was a washerwoman. And a washerwoman, albeit a washerwoman with some years of experience and a good reputation, does not actually have any social standing to speak of. If these people are being killed in order of increasing status, there is no way she would be next in line. She could have been the third victim, maybe, but not the sixth.”

“Is it possible there was more to this woman than meets the eye?”

“What, like a secret identity? Maybe she was queen of the underworld?” asked Vimes sarcastically. Even though Vetinari’s intense gaze didn’t perceivably change, it somehow seemed to grow a bit colder. Vimes made sure his face was perfectly blank and continued, “even if there was more to her than met my eye, sir, there is always still your eye. Unless you know something I don’t, something specific about this woman I mean, I’m assuming that she was exactly what she appeared to be. Still, I suppose anything’s possible in this city.”

“But you don’t think it very likely.”

It had been a statement, not a question, and Vimes didn’t feel the need to reply.

“Neither do I.” said the Patrician. “Have you thought about what this might mean, Commander?”

Vimes had, and he didn’t like it. “Maybe our killer highly values washerwoman?” he said innocently.

Vetinari ignored this. “The most likely explanation, in my opinion, is that this murder was a crime of opportunity, proof the clumsy execution, and the opportunity was your presence. It’s been obvious that this man, for some reason, wants you to be near when he commits his crimes. I think it quite possible he had planned for someone else to be last night’s victim, only you weren’t where he thought you would be, and the image of him slicing the throat of an innocent young woman who had just stepped outside to throw away potato peelings while you were mere feet away was too tempting for him to resist.”

“Well, I suppose it’s true I wasn’t where anyone would expect me to be,” said Vimes, who hadn’t known about the potato peelings. It was just a small detail, but it made the whole thing seem so much worse than if she had, for example, stepped out for an illegitimate love affair.

“Maybe this isn’t a good time for not being where you’re supposed to be,” said the Patrician.

Vimes chanced another look at the unreadable expression on the Patrician’s face and thought again about the man he’d chased. He’d seen something, he was sure of it, something very disturbing. If only he could figure out what it was. He examined his mental snapshot of what was nothing more than the silhouette of a man. Only it wasn’t just a silhouette. It had been dark outside, true, but a city like Ankh-Morpork never sleeps and is never completely dark, not really.

“Sir Samuel!” said Vetinari sharply, and Vimes realized the Patrician had been talking while he was thinking.

“Yes, sir?”

“Contrary to what you seem to be believe,” said the Patrician in a voice that sounded just a bit dangerous, “we are currently having a conversation. Which means that either you listen to what I say and attempt to reply in a manner that contributes something to said conversation, or you tell me what you are thinking and I will do you the same courtesy. I am not in the habit of monologuing, and I would not like to start now.”

Vimes felt a flash of guilt, which was not something that happened very often when the Patrician reprimanded him. All the same, he couldn’t help but think that monologuing really would suit Vetinari.

“Voice that thought, and I will have you thrown out of here before you finish your sentence,” said Vetinari coldly.

Vimes didn’t think that sounded so bad. Right now, getting away from the Patrician sounded like an excellent idea.

“Out of the city,” added Vetinari, and now his voice was positively icy.

Vimes decided that, much as he hated giving them, this was probably a good time for an apology.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, and was surprised at how cowed he sounded. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes he was still young Sam Vimes, eager to impress and himself easily impressed by authority, though grown-up Vimes had firmly added the modifiers ‘personally recognized’ and ‘satisfactory’. Vetinari did live up to those conditions, he admitted grudgingly, at least most of the time. Maybe he should put some more trust in the man.

“Good,” said the Patrician. “With that out of the way, why don’t you tell me what it was you were thinking about when I so rudely interrupted your thoughts?”

Vimes, his thoughts still on introspection, blurted out, “Boots.” He stopped himself so he could find out what the hell he was talking about.

“Boots?” asked Vetinari, mystified.

Yes, boots, an even more surprised Vimes thought to himself. When the man jumped over that wall, it was too dark to really see him, but it wasn’t too dark to see something. I knew there was something about the man to worry about, and now I know what it is and, boy, am I worried. What I need to do right now, he decided, is to get out of here for some quality worrying time by myself, and maybe I’ll figure out what it all means.

As soon as he’d thought it, he knew it would be impossible to go anywhere without giving the Patrician some sort of explanation.

“I just realized he wore an unusual pair of boots sir,” he said, already getting up from his seat and thinking fast, “a lot more expensive than I’d expect, for one. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go and, er, talk to some shoemakers.”

“Just a moment, Sir Samuel,” said Vetinari sharply. Vimes sat down again reluctantly. “While I understand your excitement about this sudden revelation,” the Patrician continued, “I have the distinct impression there is something you’re inexplicably neglecting to tell me.”

I sounded like a simple statement instead of a question, but Vimes knew that it was, in fact, a demand. He hesitated. Truth was, over the years, lying to Vetinari had become something like a habit to him, but when he consciously thought about it, it wasn’t something he liked to do unless absolutely necessary. If he was going to lie now, it would only be for selfish reasons and those just wouldn’t cut it, not when he really thought about it. And he was thinking about it now, damn it. This was why it was a good idea not to think too much when talking to Vetinari but instead simply to fall back on evasion, deception and even outright lies, if necessary.

But he was thinking now, and damn it if he wasn’t able to make his brain work for himself for a change as well. What, if he really thought about it, was there to say anyway? He only had conjecture and suspicion, no hard facts. Hardly worth mentioning, it seemed. Yes, that was the way to go. He could almost believe it himself.

“I’m pretty sure it’s nothing, sir. Just an old copper being suspicious, you know how it is.”

“Out with it, man,” said Vetinari, impatiently. Vimes looked at him for a second, surprised at the uncharacteristic choice of words. The Patrician seemed…tense. That in itself was enough to amplify the worry that had been slinking around at the edges of his thoughts, and maybe this was important.

“Well,” he said carefully, “I couldn’t really see the man I was chasing yesterday because it was pretty dark, but when he flung himself over that wall I caught sight of his boots, and…” Vimes’ voice trailed off. Vetinari waited impatiently for him to continue. Vimes coughed. “Well, the thing is, I would swear he was wearing pretty much the exact same boots I am.”

When nothing else was forthcoming, Vetinari lifted an eyebrow.

“And this is cause for distress?”

“I know it’s bloody well distressing me. It would be alright if I was still wearing the kind of boots you can buy pretty much anywhere for ten dollars, but these days Sybil spends that much just to have a man come over to measure my feet. I don’t even want to know what she pays for the boots themselves, but I do know I haven’t seen more than a dozen like them over the past five years.”

“I see,” said Vetinari, thoughtfully, “a clue, then, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” said Vimes, noncommittally.

“I’ll have some people look into it.”

“Thank you, sir, but I have my own people for that sort of thing.”

“Nevertheless.”

Vimes didn’t try to argue any further. It was useless to argue with the Patrician. For one, he was a nosy bastard who liked to be in control of everything, and second, he was the Patrician.

“Well, at least one thing has become clear now,” said Vetinari, thoughtfully.

“What’s that, sir?”

“I think we can say with some certainty that this criminal is not just a danger to the city in general, but a danger to you personally as well.”

“I fully intend to return the favour, sir,” said Vimes.

“I do hope you are taking this quite seriously, Sir Samuel. The last time someone tried to walk in my boots, he nearly caused my political downfall and his own death.”

“He’s lucky I don’t take to wearing poisonous rings then, isn’t he,” said Vimes absently. His mind was already running in an entirely different direction. He was thinking of the times he’d been walking his beat at night, when it can be difficult to make out faces even if they are not wrapped in shawls and hoods, and how he would recognize people by the way they walked or the kind of hat, coat or, indeed, boots they wore. What he was thinking about mostly were the times he’d greeted someone only to have them turn out to be a perfect stranger who just happened to have something in common with someone he knew. In the dark of night, it was easy to make a mistake like that.

11.

Vimes stood on a small balcony overlooking the Yard's entrance hall, trying to figure out a good rule of thumb to determine whether or not someone could be trusted.

The past few weeks had been… complicated. By the time they had found the tenth body, it had become impossible to keep the press away from the case. Vimes didn't know how they found out which murders were part of the pattern, the city wasn't exactly wanting for dead bodies, but somehow they managed. He wouldn't be surprised to find out one of the watchmen was leaking the information. With the way the Watch had been growing over the past few years, it was hard to keep track of all the new recruits, let alone their loyalties.

More troubling than the newspapers, though, were the people of the city. The night-time streets, never exactly bustling at the best of times*, had become positively deserted, and even during the day there were fewer people walking by themselves. Those who had to venture outside walked in pairs and had a tendency to look around nervously, afraid of what might be lurking in shadowy corners.

*'The best of times', in a city like Ankh-Morpork, meaning there was only a moderate chance of being mugged, a slight chance of getting killed, and a negligible chance of someone messing around with the very fabric of space and time.

Vimes understood why they were afraid. Everyone knew that getting yourself killed over a petty argument at the pub or for the content of your purse was one of the daily hazards of life in the big city, and those who were so inclined could make sure to stay out of harm’s way. Confronted with the unpleasant prospect of the Serial Killer – a monniker coined by the Times - people didn't know what to do. Everything about the murders seemed to be random and without purpose, while the one thing that wasn't random, the increasing social standing of the victims, didn't seem to stop anyone from fearing for their lives. No one believes they are too unimportant to be murdered. The people were scared. And people who are scared aren't always very rational.

Vimes sensed someone approaching and turned around. Carrot was coming towards him from the dark corridor that led to the balcony, and saluted as soon as he saw Vimes had noticed him. Vimes could see Angua standing in the shadows behind him.

"Captain," Vimes nodded in reply. "Something wrong?"

"I'm not sure something is wrong, sir, but things are happening, changing, in the city lately. I thought you might want to know about them."

Vimes motioned at Carrot to go on.

"Well, sir, you said you wanted me to keep my ears open, but you never really said what I should be listening for, so I just, you know, generally listened. At first I didn't hear anything that was especially surprising, but the last two weeks I've been hearing about people who say they've seen the Serial Killer!"

Vimes didn't even have to think about what might have set these sightings off. Two weeks ago was when he had seen the Killer for himself. Now he would find out if he'd been right about the reason. He felt anger starting to build up, but managed to keep his voice pleasant and asked, "Is that so? Tell me, captain, how do these people describe the Serial Killer?"

"They all say pretty much the same thing. Average height. Large coat, probably leather. Good quality leather boots. Dark hair, but that could be anything from dark blond to black in the night. No one seems to have seen his face." Carrot's voice was excited and he looked expectantly at Vimes. When Vimes didn't react, he continued, "This is excellent, sir! The Killer is obviously getting overconfident, careless, he's thinking he can get away with anything. Now it's only a matter of time before we catch him!"

Vimes' rage, which had almost come to a boiling point, instantly disappeared and he looked at Carrot in amazement.

"Captain," he said carefully, "you have been on this case from day one. You've seen what this bastard does and how he does it. So far, he hasn’t left us a single clue, even though we’ve gotten pretty good at finding the damn things over the years. So tell me, when exactly did you get the impression that he's stupid?"

"Well, er, I didn’t, really. "

"Neither did I. So let's assume that he's not stupid, that he doesn't want to get caught and definitely won't make the mistake of underestimating us. Instead, we'll assume he's intelligent and meticulous in his actions."

"Then…,' Carrot said slowly, "he's not getting careless? He's doing it on purpose?"

"Now you're thinking in the right direction."

"I am?"

"Oh yes. He's letting himself be seen. I don't believe for a minute that it was an accident. Obviously…" Vimes' voice trailed off. He knew what it obviously meant. Had known it from the start, it seemed. And now he couldn't deny it anymore, not with the description Carrot had given.

It was exactly how someone would describe him, Vimes, if seen at night and from a distance.

It was so obvious, in fact, that he wondered that no one else had made the connection yet. Unless…. He looked at Carrot suspiciously.

"Obviously,” he continued, "there's something you're not telling me. We get people who've witnessed crimes in here every day, half the time they didn't even see anything but just sort of heard about it from someone else who kind of almost saw something, just so they can feel important and go tell the Times about it afterwards. So why did none of these people who have seen the Serial Killer come to the Watch? You'd think they'd be cueing up outside the door."

Carrot cringed. "They didn't say, sir."

"No, I imagine they didn't. But you're good at knowing what goes on in the city, so I bet you found out anyway. And I bet you found out that what these people are saying, just not when you're officially there to hear it, is that not a lot of people go around prowling the street at night in great big leather coats and wearing boots that cost more than their monthly rent. But they do know one person like that, and who would that be, oh yes, I know, Commander Vimes of the City Watch!"

Carrot was starting to look decidedly unhappy, and he blurted out, "but it's ridiculous, sir! You would never kill someone, definitely not someone innocent, and I can't believe people would think so even for a minute."

"People will be people," Vimes sighed. "This was the Killer's plan from the start, I’m sure of it, and it's not exactly an impossible task to convince people that someone is a bad person, not in this city."

Carrot didn't say anything, but Vimes knew that he was thinking disbelieving thoughts. Carrot wasn’t capable of thinking the worst of people, or even the reasonably bad. Trying to convince him that any random citizen was perfectly capable of revelling in petty viciousness was a waste of time. He'd just keep on believing that everyone had some good in them, deep down. Really deep down, in some cases, but it was there. So instead of trying to teach Carrot one of the lessons life should really have taught him by now, he said wearily, "Thanks for letting me know, Captain. It's useful information."

That seemed to make Carrot feel marginally better. "So we're closer to catching the Killer?'

"Maybe," Vimes said noncommittally. "Right now I'm closer to going home."

Carrot looked disappointed, but didn’t say anything more. He just nodded, saluted and left. Vimes turned around to look out over the mass of people in the entrance hall again. Suddenly it seemed a lot less important to find out who was leaking information to the papers. Now he was wondering how many of the people down there would gladly believe it when some man in the pub told them that Commander Vimes was killing innocent people in the dark of night.

He turned around to leave and found himself face to face with Angua, who had remained silent during his conversation with Carrot but apparently still had something to say. Something she didn’t want to discuss while Carrot was around. Vimes raised an eyebrow at her.

Angua gave him a hard look. “Mr vimes…” she started to say, then seemed to lose her nerve.

‘Mr Vimes’ eh, Vimes thought. He felt a surge of irritation, but suppressed it. She was, well, as close to a friend as he could manage, he supposed, so he could at least listen to what would no doubt be unsolicited advice.

“Mr Vimes,” Angua said again. “I know for a fact that you had nothing to do with these murders. Not just because you aren’t the type to kill random people in the streets, but because most of the time I can smell you didn’t actually pass through the exact same spot the attack took place, and sometimes you passed there hours before it actually happened. A lot of the people in the city know there’s a werewolf living here, some even know it’s me, and everyone knows how good a werewolf’s sense of smell is. I could easily let it be known that you’re in the clear. If you’d want me to, that is.”

Vimes sighed. “Angua,” he said, keeping with the informal tone she’d set, “most, if not all, people also know that said werewolf is a member of the Watch. They’ll assume you’re either covering up for me because you’re loyal to me, or covering up for me because I ordered you to. I’m pretty sure you figured that out for yourself, since you’re under no delusions where the moral fibre of our citizens is concerned, so why bring it up?”

Angua’s shoulders sagged a bit. “It’s just that you’ve been holed up in here for weeks. When you go anywhere, you take the coach, and I know how much you hate that, and it’s never for anything other than to go home or to see the Patrician.”  
“I’m sure Carrot’s thrilled about that,” Vimes said drily.  
“No,” Angua said kindly, “all of us, well, all of us who’ve known you for a few years, can see that its’ killing you by inches. And anyway, it’s not working.” Angua waited for an answer, but Vimes just looked at her steadily. Now it was Angua’s turn to sigh. “It’s obvious what you’re trying to do. You think that if you don’t give the Killer the opportunity to cast you as a likely suspect, he’s going to stop killing people. But he isn’t. Two of the last four victims were killed within thirty feet of the Yard. The other two were somewhere along the route from here to your house. Unless you’re planning to sit in full view of the entire city for the rest of your life, people are always going to say that you could have snuck out for a few hours, or that your coach driver is in on it, or you’re hypnotizing or ensorceling him or something.”  
Vimes wondered if she’d just come up with that on the spot, or if it was what people were actually saying. And did it even matter? They were probably saying it, he knew. The people of Ankh-Morpork wouldn’t be talked out of a scandal like this. And he was a likely suspect, damn it. If he hadn’t been himself, he would have been damn suspicious. Either way, Angua was right. It didn’t do him any good to hide in here, away from the streets were crime was being committed. Vetinari be damned, this was an excellent time to be where he wasn’t expected. He might find someone there who wasn’t expecting him. He looked at Angua  
“I see your point. Very well, Sergeant. I’m sure there’s something you should be doing right now.” He grinned at her. “Me, I think I’m going out for a bit of stroll.”  
Angua’s grin mirrored his own, if a bit less madly. “Glad to hear it, sir. I’ll be around if you need me.”  
Vimes was glad to see her leave, apparently having said everything she was going to say. However useful introspection could be, he didn’t like other people to get involved and muck it all up.  
12.  
The next evening, Vimes went out for another walk. Walks were good for your health, after all, though arguably of late his walks weren’t good for the health of Ankh Morpork’s fine citizens. With any luck, his walks would soon prove detrimental to the health of a certain murdering bastard.  
He followed a random* route through several high-class neighbourhoods on the Ankh side of the river. The previous victim had been a moderately successful businessman, and Vimes expected the next victim to be a more successful version of same. After that – not that there would be an ‘after’, if he could help it – it’d be a toss-up between politicians and nobility, which could become pretty interesting. Vimes could just imagine Lord Rust throwing a fit because some random psychopath decided he wasn’t at the top of the social hierarchy.

*Humans are, of course, not capable of truly random action, so even if they believe they are making a random choice when, for example, faced with a fork in the road, they are actually choosing the left-hand path because they vaguely associate it with rebellion or because that’s where the baker where their mother used to be pastries on special occasions is located. Throw in narrative causality and an unknown, and indeed unknowable, number of gods, and one might concluded there is in fact nothing at all that can be said to be even remotely random.

Thus immersed in entertaining thoughts, Vimes reached the point on a driveway where a cast iron gate made it clear that he’d reached that part of the Disc where the owner of the gate decides who gets to walk through it, and Vimes probably didn’t make the list.

He threw a cursory glance at what little he could see in the shadows on the other side of the gate, already half turned to return to more welcoming* parts of the city, and froze.

*Or at least more accessible.

Maybe twenty feet from the gate, Vimes could just barely make out a face in the darkness. It was male, and that was just about all he could say for sure. Presumably it came with a body, which was currently standing behind some shrubbery. It could be a guard, Vimes told himself. A place like this is bound to have a few guards. Yeah, right, his more cynical thoughts replied, but only it’s three in the morning and any guard knows he isn’t likely to be caught if he’s napping or playing cards with his mates at a time like that

The man stepped out from behind the bushes and out of the deepest of the shadows. He was wearing a large coat. It could be leather, it was hard to say for sure in the darkness. He was holding something in his arms. Something large. Or someone. No. Something that used to be someone. As soon as he realized it, Vimes could smell the blood. The man let the body fall to the ground, as if to demonstrate how little it meant to him now.

Everything seemed to slow down. Vimes’ thoughts flowed leisurely through his mind. He knew he should be moving, even if it wasn’t very clear what he should do, but his body almost seemed paralyzed. His eyes slowly, so slowly, went from the limp body on the ground to the boots standing behind it, up along the leather greatcoat and on to the face that was still almost all shadow. Almost, but not entirely. He could see shapes, nothing so much as a distinguishing feature, and one of the shapes was that of a grinning mouth. It frightened a part of his brain that had developed when eldritch horrors from the dungeon dimensions still took to terrorizing the Disc on a regular basis.

So that’s what insanity looks like, he thought dazedly. He’d thought he’d seen insanity before, but now he realized it had just been madness without all the frills. True insanity was cold and sharp and entirely devoid of humanity. Suddenly he didn’t want to do anything so much as run away screaming.

Luckily for the Watch’s reputation, the man on the other side of the fence chose that moment to turn around and walk away himself. He disappeared in the shadows within moments. This was enough to jumpstart Vimes’ mental processes again, and he made use of them frantically. The fence was at least three times as tall as he was, and it seemed no one had conveniently left a ladder lying around. A gate like this wouldn’t have the kind of lock he could just smash with his truncheon. Hell, it probably had a magical lock that only opened when the right person sang the second verse of the city’s anthem backward or something, and it’d send a bolt of lightning through anyone else who touched it. His only chance was to find an opening in the fence somewhere. Maybe there was an underground tunnel for the rebellious son or daughter every rich person was sure to have to sneak out at night. Vimes ran to the right.

13.

“I should’ve run to the left,” Vimes said miserably. He was nursing a bottle of grapefruit juice and wishing it was whiskey.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, dear,” said Sybil. They were sitting on adjacent sofas in front of the fireplace in the burnt ochre drawing room. She patted his knee comfortingly before returning to her knitting. “You couldn’t have known that the fence to the left had been destroyed by a berserk elephant during the Clairmont’s latest garden party.”

“Why not? You seem to know all about it.” Vimes snapped, and immediately regretted it. “Sorry about that,” he said a moment later, his voice much calmer. Sybil simply nodded, and Vimes took it to mean she knew he wasn’t angry with her, even if the rest of the world was still suspect. “Did you know the vict – err, Mrs Clairmont well?”

“Oh no, not at all, really. But I know of her. I don’t usually catch a lot of gossip, but I couldn’t avoiding hearing some about her.”

“Really? How’s that?”

Sybil shot him a questioning glance, not quite sure he was really interested, before answering. “You know her husband is a merchant, of course. He sells luxury items to the higher classes.”

Vimes nodded, and smiled to himself. He knew for a fact that people who were really high class wouldn’t even consider buying luxury items. Or think of themselves as high class, for that matter.

“Well, the rumor is that he’s getting his business in part through the rather impressive, err, public relations skills his wife has.” Sybil blushed and focused on her knitting.

“And that’s why she was killed, and not her husband,” said Vimes, in sudden understanding. “I thought that was odd.” He almost smiled. It felt good to have this small bit of the puzzle solved. Of course, the less optimistic part of his mind offered, the puzzle is approximately the size of Ankh-Morpork, and this piece isn’t even the size of a cobblestone.

Vimes’ expression turned gloomy again, and he sank back in his chair. It would be nice if a small black cloud would form around his head, he thought. One that would hide the rest of the world from view. Maybe it could be a thundercloud, and a merciful lightning bolt could put him out of his misery.

“Are you all right, dear?” Sybil’s voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts.

He looked at her, and her concern was obvious on her face. He sighed and waved his hand in a so-so gesture.

“Maybe we should go out,” she offered. “I’m sure there’s something or other to do to get your mind off your work.”

Vimes barked a short, bitter laugh in reply and Sybil sighed. She wasn’t even sure why she’d made the suggestion.

“Even if I wanted to,” said Vimes without looking at his wife, “half the people out there believe I’m the Serial Killer.”

“I know,” Sybil said softly. What she also knew but did not say was that it was quite a bit more than half the people. “It was a stupid idea. I just wanted to… be of some help.”

“You’re already helping just by being here. I think I’d go mad if I didn’t have you and Young Sam to come home to.” They smiled at each other for a moment, but this was not a time for smiles, and their expressions quickly turned serious again.

“I mean it, Sam. I’m worried and I want to do something to help. And it’s not just you I’m worried about. The entire city feels like it’s about to topple over. I try to stay out of politics, and even I can feel it.”

“Ankh-Morpork citizens murdered in the streets. Commander of the Watch under heavy suspicion but not scrutiny. What are our leaders doing?” said Vimes, raising an eyebrow.

“Something like that,” said Sybil. “The people who have power or money have always supported Vetinari because he’s managed to keep the city more stable and safe than anyone can remember it ever being, but now they’re afraid for their lives and those of their families.”

“Sounds like you haven’t been very good at staying out of politics.”

“What I’m not very good at is doing nothing while some madman is slowly working its way up to murdering my friends and family,” she said, and there was a touch of steel in her voice. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

Vimes was silent for a long time. He didn’t really want Sybil to get involved, but there actually was something she could do to help. At this point, he was willing to try just about everything.

“Alright,” he said, and was secretly pleased to see the surprise on her face. At least she hadn’t expected him to just give in like that. “Alright,” he repeated. “There’s a bit of information I need, but I haven’t been able to get it. You might.”

Sybil’s first thought was that if the Watch hadn’t been able to obtain this illusive piece of information, she would hardly fare better, but she pushed the thought away. “What do you need me to find out?” she asked..

“I’ve been trying to get my hands on a list of people who bought boots similar to mine, but none of the bootmakers in the city will even talk to me about their clients. It’s against guild policy or something, and I can’t force them.”

Sybil was silent for a moment. “How similar?”

“I could probably mistake them for my own if I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Alright. I can find out by tomorrow evening.”

Vimes raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Of course. If the boots you’re looking for are that similar to your own, I don’t think I should look any further than our own bootmaker. He wouldn’t give information about his clients to the City Watch, but he might give it to me. He also does most of my dragon-resistant clothing and footwear, and,” she smiled, “he wouldn’t want to lose his main source of income.”

14.

There were only five people on the list. The first had been a dud, of course. The first one always was. It had been an elderly gentleman who dressed as if he was still only twenty years old and talked as if he might go out into the country to hunt game at any moment, but, realistically, would probably fail to catch a butterfly if it were to land on his nose.

Vimes rang the doorbell of the second address on his list without much conviction. If the person he was looking for happened to be on the list, it would be the last one he’d called upon. That’s the way it always was, even if he tried to cheat and start with the last one, or the middle one.

He looked at his list again while they waited in front of an impressive house, large enough to be called a mansion. It belonged to one Alexander Williams, merchant. Vimes had never heard the name before, which probably meant that Mr Williams was important and rich enough to have other people do his job for him.

A young maid opened the door and asked if she could help them. By the look on her face Vimes guessed that she knew who he was and didn’t think that anyone could help him.

“City Watch,” Vimes announced. “I’m looking for Mr Williams. We’d like to ask him some questions.”

The maid looked the little group over suspiciously. Vimes couldn’t blame her. His first instinct had been to either go by himself or take several troll officers with him, depending on how strongly he believed the entire effort would prove to be a waste of time. When reason had finally kicked in, he’d decided to take Angua and Nobby. Both, in their own way, were good at detecting lies and picking up on things other people would much prefer they didn’t notice.

The maid only saw a man who was these days first rumoured to be a murderer and only second the Commander of the Watch, a young woman who was too attractive for comfort, and something that looked like it was probably a man and very probably the type who was always waiting for an opportunity to palm the first small item of value he spotted.

After some consideration, the maid apparently decided that it wasn’t her problem, and she invited them into the drawing room. Mr Williams was working in his study, and if they could wait for just a few minutes she would ask if he had the time to speak to them.

The drawing room, as such rooms generally were, was decorated to impress. The furniture was tasteful enough, heavy and obviously expensive. Every available surface, however, was piled with objects that were impressive enough in their own right but combined to create a picture of impersonal chaos rather than of wealth and status. Vimes had spent some time among the kind of people who had drawing rooms, and could recognize new money and lack of taste when he saw it.

Vimes and Angua sat down on the edge of a couch that was upholstered in brocade and positively smothered in gold thread. It wasn’t very comfortable, which was probably the intention. Nobby wandered around the room, opening drawers and picking up objects to examine them more closely. When they heard footsteps approaching, Nobby casually leaned against the side of large cupboard that just happened to cast a rather deep shadow and stayed there.

The maid opened the door to let Mr Williams enter, and as soon as the man stepped into the room, Vimes knew that this was the man he had been looking for. The rational part of his mind told him that he couldn’t know that, that he’d never seen the face of the Serial Killer, that the man who was hovering in the doorway shared nothing with the shadowy figure he’d seen in the way of either body language or insane smiles, but the other part of his mind, the part that didn’t need rational reasons, knew. It was sure. This was the man.

Vimes shot up, but managed to stop himself before physically grabbing Mr Williams and marching him off to the cells. That wasn’t the way they did things in the Watch, he reminded himself, no matter how much any individual Watchmen might want to. He took a deep breath and tried to remember what he was supposed to do next when confronting a suspect.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Angua had moved as well. Of course! She would be able to identify Mr Williams by his smell. He turned to look at her, confident that she would be as eager to take the bastard down as he was, but Angua wasn’t looking at Mr Williams. She was looking at Vimes with a puzzled expression. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her. Is that our man? Angua slowly shook her head, and that was it, really, wasn’t it? A werewolf’s nose doesn’t lie. Only it had to be lying this time, or maybe it was being fooled somehow, because Vimes was sure.

The silence was broken by Mr Williams clearing his throat from the doorway. Vimes realized that his behaviour must have been fairly confusing to the man, who had no doubt already been anxious by the presence of law enforcement personal in his drawing room. He was still trying to think of a civilized way to say “I’ve got you now, you murderous bastard, confess!” but Mr Williams spoke first.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, and, erm, lady. The maid told me some people from the city watch were here with enquiries. Please have a… seat, why don’t you? I’ve sent for coffee and, erm, biscuits, they should be here in a moment. Or a few moments. I hope that’s alright. Most people like coffee and biscuits. And might I, erm, inquire as to your names? Ah, no, I should introduce myself first. I am Alexander Williams. Pleased to meet you.”

Mr Williams walked across the room as he was speaking until he had come within close enough to Vimes to offer his hand. His movements were like his speech: oddly fluent in a disjointed way. The casual observer or listener might be moved to come to his aid, to finish his sentences as he spoke or hold his arm as he walked, but would soon find out that Mr Williams was used to doing as he pleased and was, in fact, very nearly impossible to interrupt. New money, but from at least one generation back then. This man didn’t look as if he could manage a grocery list, let alone a trade emporium. Then again, appearances could be deceiving.

Vimes ignored the proffered hand. A werewolf’s nose might not lie, but neither did his instincts. He would shudder at the thought of touching this man if he hadn’t learned how to maintain a rigid posture at all times, and instead he saluted.

“Commander Vimes of the City Watch. These are two of my officers, Sergeant Angua and Corporal Nobbs. We are currently conducting an investigation into the recent string of murders, and we have reason to believe you might be able to provide us with vital information.”

Mr Williams looked at his hand for a moment before lowering it again with an amiable enough smile and sat down in the sofa across from Angua.

“Oh my. Yes, I have heard about those, erm, murders. They have my wife very concerned. And me too, of course. I do hope I’m not, erm, under any sort of suspicion. I would be very happy to provide any information that might be useful. And I do wish you would sit down, Commander, it’s only proper in a drawing room and, look, there is our coffee. And biscuits. Delightful.”

It took Vimes a few moments to process everything Mr Williams had just said. Sitting down seemed like the thing to do, so he sat down. The important thing to do right now, he decided, was collect more information. And Mr Williams had just consented to being interrogated. Alright, maybe not in those terms, and red-hot pokers were probably out, but he’d at least agreed to being interviewed. It would have to do, for now.

“Thank you, Mr Williams. I appreciate your cooperation. To begin with, I would like you to tell me were you were at the following times…”

Vimes pulled several sheets of paper out of one of his pockets and started. Were was Mr Williams at the times of the murders? Had he known any of the victims? Did he own a leather greatcoat? How were his knife-fighting skills? Vimes would get all the facts, and once he did, they would tell him a story. That was how these things went.

15.

Unfortunately, that was not how things went this time. It was a very dejected Vimes who walked back the Yard with Angua and Nobby on either side of him.

Mr Williams had been the picture of helpfulness, hadn’t said anything even remotely incriminating, had said or done nothing that would lead a rational person to believe he was a murdering madman etc. etc. There was only one possible explanation. He was truly insane. Either that, or Vimes was going mad.

The one bright spot in the conversation had been Mr Williams’ inability to account for his whereabouts at the times of the murders. As it turned out, he did indeed delegate most of the day-to-day business of trading goods for money to his employees and spent the greater part of his evenings at home, reading. His staff knew not to bother him unless called, and didn’t even see him most evenings. If it came to that, Mr Williams wouldn’t be able to provide an alibi nine evenings out of ten. It wasn’t much, not what you would call evidence, but it was something. Or at least that’s what Vimes told himself.

Vimes turned his head to look at Angua. “So, nothing.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, just -” she said, and hesitated.

Vimes tried to ignore the glimmer of hope he felt. Hope never got you anywhere. “Just what?” he asked, and thought he succeeded very well in making his voice sound hard instead of expectant.

“I’m afraid it’s nothing, sir. I did get a whiff of magic in the house, but it’s an old house and Mr Williams is a rich man. There’s bound to be a magical item or two in there. Maybe an amulet, or an antique sword with some magic still in it.”

Vimes knew she was right, no doubt he had a few of the bloody things lying around himself, but still… Maybe, just maybe, this was a lead. Only it didn’t matter, did it? He had nothing on Mr Williams, so it wasn’t as if he could barge in there and ransack the place. Right?

“You want I should go back and take another look, Mr Vimes?” Nobby’s words trickled into Vimes’ ear in the way of seedy propositions made by some bloke in pubs all across the disc, and in the way of every desperate, easy mark, Vimes was sorely tempted to do something he knew he would regret. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

He looked sideways at Angua. By the laws of sly pub-speak, Nobby’s voice shouldn’t have been audible to anyone but Vimes, but Angua was probably an exception. She looked at him steadily, and he was absolutely positive no one heard her voice when the low almost-growl reached his ears.

“We could always take him in for questioning.”

And wasn’t that tempting? If they had enough questions, they could keep him at the yard for days. At the very least it would give them a chance to see if people kept showing up dead while Mr Williams was incarcerated. Vimes was sure they wouldn’t. He was sure, dammit, and he wanted very badly to grasp at straws and jump at the slightest opportunity to take the bastard down.

But his straws, on closer inspection, where strands of spider’s thread, and he knew that if he jumped he would fall hard.

16.

It was several days later when Vimes found himself sitting once again in the chair opposite Vetinari’s desk. It was dark outside, and the few candles surrounding the desk only made the shadows deeper. Neither of them had said anything since he came in. He glanced briefly at the Patrician. Vetinari was staring at a spot of wall above Vimes’ head. That wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

Vetinari cleared his throat. “The city has been quiet lately.”

That wasn’t exactly true. The city had been buzzing with rumors.

“I mean, of course, that the Serial Killer hasn’t claimed any new vicitims. The Watch hasn’t turned up any new leads. It appears we are at a standstill.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Vimes said, clearly frustrated.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“You know there isn’t, sir. Carrot’s been going through the Laws and Ordinances, as if he doesn’t know them by heart, but there’s nothing in there. Williams hasn’t done anything we could use as a reason to throw him in the cells, or even search his house.”

“You’re certain he is your man?”

“I am! I saw him at the Clairmont’s house. It was him, I’m sure.”

“But you didn’t actually see him, as such?”

Vimes was silent. It wasn’t enough, he knew. The law only allowed him to act on the basis of a confession or an eye-witness account. If only he could barge into the house and look for the leather coat and boots he was sure he would find there. Maybe the murder weapon was just lying around in a drawer. If only he could interrogate Williams, keep him locked up for a week or so. But that had been how the Particulars worked, and he had promised himself he was better than that.

Lately, he had found himself wishing he was less principled. That he would allow himself to act on evidence that was weak at best.

“I thought as much,” Vetinari said when Vimes didn’t reply. “You didn’t see the man clearly that night because it was too dark, and you can’t prove Mr Williams is the Killer because you’re not allowed to search his house. You have no reasonable cause to do anything. And yet I hear that the gargoyle population in the vicinity of Mr Williams’ house has inexplicably gone up these past few days.”

Vimes winced. He knew he was stretching the limits of what he was allowed to do by keeping an eye on Williams. Strechting, but not breaking.

“Mr Williams might very well be the Killer’s next victim. He fits the pattern.” Vimes’ face was completely expressionless.

“A trait he shares with several hundred more of our fine citizens.”

Silence still seemed to be the way to go, as far as Vimes was concerned.

“I see,” the Patrician sighed.

There was a soft knock on the door and Drumknott entered the office.

“My apologies for interrupting, my lord. There is a message for Commander Vimes.”

Drumknott handed a folded note to Vetinari, who passed it on to Vimes without comment. There was something familiar about the situation, and Vimes experienced a definite sense of dread.

Vimes read the message quickly and sprang to his feet. “It’s from Angua. Williams has left his house through a back door, carrying a large bag. I have to go.”

“In person?”

“Yes!” Vimes didn’t wait for a reply. He ran out of the office, slamming the doors shut behind him.

Vetinari stared at the large double doors for a long time.

“I’m sure Commander Vimes didn’t mean to close the doors quite so brusquely,” Drumknott offered.

“That is not what worries me, Drumknott. Is there something familiar about this situation to you?”

“I certainly hope there will be no magical lightning storms this night, my lord.”

“Indeed. Could you be so good as to go over to the Watch House and keep me informed on any developments?”

“I shall go at once, my lord.”

“Thank you, Drumknott.

Vetinari didn’t move after Drumknott had left. A storm was brewing, magical or not, and he could only wait.

17.

A steady stream of messages kept Vetinari informed on the position of Vimes and Williams. Williams was, for all apparent purposes, simply out for a walk. Vimes was silently following him, and he in turn was followed by gargoyles.

Williams was slowly making his way Hubward from his house on King’s Way. He had wisely avoided Scoone Avenue, purposely or not. Vetinari was certain that if Williams came too close the Ramkin Residence, Vimes would not be able to stop himself from arresting the man, quite violently, on the spot.

The silent chase turned Rimward and continued through Prouts, then through every narrow lane and alley between Speedwell Street and Long Wall. A man could lose himself there.

The candles in his office had burned low and finally flickered out as Vetinari waited. Finally he received the message he had been dreading. The gargoyles had lost the trail. It was another half hour before the received the final message. The blood drained from his face as he read it.

18.

Vimes had noticed that the gargoyles had lost him, and he was glad for it. They were very quiet, but he could see them coming and going from the corner of his eye. It had been distracting. He had ordered the rest of the Watch to keep well away, supposedly because he wanted to lower the risk of being seen. That had been a lie. He wanted to do this by himself. Just him and the chase.

Williams stepped into a passage that Vimes knew to be a dead end, so he waited. The passage ran between two of the expensive mansions on Park Lane and was mainly used by servants who couldn’t be seen to use the main entrance. It wasn’t long before a rather bulkier figure, wearing the expected coat and boots, stepped out of the passage, and, yes!, Vimes could see his face clearly this time. It was Mr Williams, but the expression on his face was very different from the helpful, mild-mannered man Vimes had met a few days earlier. This was a cold-blooded murderer, and the bone-chilling insanity he had seen earlier was clear in his eyes.

But it wasn’t enough. He had to witness the man as he did something illegal. If he went around arresting people for walking around the city wearing heavy leather coats and sturdy leather boots, he would have had to arrest himself a long time ago. The only thing he could do now was keep track of Williams.

He didn’t have to wait long before Williams stepped into another dead-end servant’s passageway. Vimes positioned himself in the shadows of a similar passageway across from it and listened. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Williams could hardly just call out to someone inside the house. But, ah, there it was, the sound of a coach approaching.

It stopped a short distance away from where both men were lying in wait, and a young woman got out. She was followed by a young man who kissed her passionately and held her close. He said something that was too low for Vimes to hear and the young woman laughed. Vimes heard her say that she was perfectly safe, both from murderers on the street and her parents. It was only a few steps to the servant’s entrance, she said, and she would be safely in bed before he knew it. The young man got inside the coach again, and the woman waved as it turned the corner. She went into the passageway.

This was it, then. Williams had somehow known about this young woman’s nightly expeditions. Maybe he had been stalking her for months, and he had chosen this night to make his move. But not in my city, Vimes thought, nobody gets away with murder in my city. He silently followed the woman into the passageway.

She was at the door of the house to the left, rummaging around in her purse for her keys. Vimes was just in time to see Williams close in behind her and clasp his hand over her mouth to muffle her screams. Vimes started running.

“Now I’ve got you!” Vimes yelled as he bridged the last few yards between himself and his prey. Williams turned his head to look at Vimes and didn’t seem at all surprised to see him there. He didn’t say anything, but pushed the young woman roughly away, causing her to hit her head against the doorframe and crumple to the ground.

Williams raised his knife, ready to strike as soon as Vimes was close enough, but Vimes had been a street kid for as long as he could remember, and he grabbed hold of Williams’s arm before he could do anything. He pressed his own body close to Williams and bent the arm in an angle he knew to hurt like hell. Williams refused to keep still and surrender. He was not a skilled fighter, but he was surprisingly strong. He managed to kick Vimes’ legs from under him and tried to wrench his arm free, but Vimes pulled him down as he fell to ground himself. Vimes focused only one the knife. If he could get that away from Williams, he was reasonably certain he could restrain him until his reinforcements found out where he was.

He used both of his hands to bend William’s arm at the wrist and ignored the ongoing assault from the man’s other limbs. He increased the pressure until Williams simply could not hold on to the knife any longer. It dropped to the ground and Vimes grabbed for it immediately. And the second he touched it, everything… seemed very simple. Here he was, and officer of the law. There Williams was, a murderer without a weapon, and, somehow now without the strength to even move. The man was just lying there, next to the girl he would have killed if it hadn’t been for Vimes. And he could still get away with it. The justice system is flawed, Vimes told himself. Or did he? The thought was in his head, so it must be his. The justice system is flawed, yes, but he, Vimes, could do something about it. He had done it before, with the dwarves in Koom Valley. They had been murderers, and he had brought them to justice. He could do the same to Williams. He felt like he was in a dream, watching himself straddling Williams, watching himself stabbing the man in the chest until there could be no doubt that he was dead.

Suddenly there was a light. He turned his head toward the entrance of the passageway and saw two watchmen holding lanterns. Dwarves, he didn’t know their names, but he had seen them around. They must have been drawn here by the sounds of fighting.

He felt darkness settle over him and fell to the ground. The knife dropped from his hand, and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the knife as it rolled away from him with seemingly purposeful motion and disappeared into the shadows.

19.

“Good evening, Sir Samuel.”

Vimes slowly opened his eyes. He knew he should probably sit up straight, maybe get up and stand to attention, but he couldn’t even summon the energy to carry the weight of his head, which was currently being supported by the wall behind him.

“Your lordship. Didn’t hear you coming.” He spoke slowly and his voice was lifeless.

“Old habits die hard, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

“In my own dungeons? I dare say I’m allowed.”

They were silent for a long time. Vetinari moved his cane in front of him and rested both hands on top of the silver death’s head. He looked as if he would very much like to sit down as well.

“I would like you to know that I find the events of the past few days most regrettable.”

Vimes laughed a brief, hoarse laugh.

“For once we feel the same way, my lord”

“There does seem to be a certain sense of unfairness about it. Yet murder is murder, and the punishment is hanging.”

“Even if the so-called victim was a murderer himself, it seems.”

“The law does demand such a thing as evidence. As things stand now, the people are quite conved that you yourself are the Serial Killer”

“Save it, my lord. I’ve heard it before. If we’d been able to do our job properly, we’d have had plenty of evidence.”

“You know the letter of the law as well as I do, Sir Samuel.”

“Funny how it never mattered before that we tried to uphold the spirit of the law.”

“It never ended in murder before.”

Vimes sighed. It was pointless. He’d been having this discussion for three days now, with one official after the other. He had tried to appeal to fairness and justice, he had pleaded and he had shouted, and it hadn’t mattered at all. He sighed and closed his eyes again.

“What are you even doing here?”

“I thought you might like to be distracted from your own thoughts for a while.”

“I was doing that just fine by myself until you showed up.”

“I see. I shall leave you to it then. Good night, Sir Samuel.”

Vetinari turned and walked away. Just before he would be out of earshot, Vimes said, “When will it happen?”

Vetinari stopped but didn’t turn around.

“I thought you knew.”

“I don’t see many people down here.”

Vetinari was silent for a few moments. “You are to be hanged in the morning.” He continued walking away. “The world shall be a very different place the day after tomorrow,” he whispered.

20.

The hanging was to take place on the Plaza of Broken Moons at seven in the morning. Several people had pleaded for Pseudopolis Yard, but it was easy to foresee that that would be too small, and the wizards had threatened to blast anyone who tried to put up a gallows on Sator Square, on account of it being right next to the University.

The first food stands were erected around four o’clock. The first people showed up around five. Usually, no one would arrive at a hanging more than an hour in advance, but in this case it would prove a bit more challenging to get a good view. The Plaza was packed by half past six. At a quarter to seven, a ripple passed through the crowd, starting at The Maul and opening a path to where the gallows stood. An unnatural silence fell over the Plaza as the entirety of the Watch marched towards the gallows, where they spread out and encircled the wooden structure. They were followed by a black coach, behind which the crowd closed again. The coach stopped inside the circle of watchmen, its door opened, and out stepped the convict, His Grace, The Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was escorted by two trolls. Trolls who were, most notably, not members of the Watch.

The crowd stirred. There was that irritating buzz you get when several thousand people are having whispered conversations. They wanted to applaud or boo, throw flowers or rotting vegetables, anything to make it clear that nothing out of the ordinary was happening here, but no one wanted to attract the attention of the Watch right now.

All this was observed by a man standing between the towering chimneys that arose from the high buildings surrounding the Plaza. He was dressed in loose, dark grey clothes and a hooded cloak. He made a mental note of everyone present. Most of them were, in a very real sense, just faces in the crowd. Several of the more well-known citizens had secured a place near the front, if by the means of trolls and golems rather than patience. All the guild heads were present, and managed to look solemn. Lord Rust seemed to be unable to hide his smugness. The unseen observer was not surprised to note the absence of Lady Sybil. He’d heard Sir Samuel had explicitly forbidden her to come, and nobody could blame her for giving in just a bit too easily.

All sound was abruptly cut off by the first stroke of Old Tom, the silent bell all hangmen traditionally went by. The invisible man on the rooftops focused on the very visible man on the gallows. He forced himself to keep looking as, one the seventh stroke of silence, the hangman pulled the lever and the trapdoor fell open.

The silence hung around for a while until it got embarrassed and slinked off. Men and Women remembered they had jobs to do, children went off in search of better entertainment. The trolls who had made sure the living body of Samuel Vimes got where it had to go, now did the same for the dead body. The black coach disappeared. Efficient men broke down the gallows. The watchmen left in ones and twos for the Bucket, where they would quietly drink until crime seemed worth fighting again. People went on with their lives.

After the last person had left, the Plaza remained empty for a while. Just for now it was sacred space. Then three boys ran over it, laughing and chasing after a dog, and the spell broke. People walked across the Plaza on their way to see other people and do various things, stopped to greet familiar faces and exchange the latest gossip, and generally went about their business. Ankh-Morpork got over things quickly.

The man on the rooftop walked away, then ran, jumped to different rooftops and ran across them, never seen by anyone. He slowed down to walking speed when he reached the last rooftop. There were other hidden men there, and they nodded at each other. He opened a concealed trapdoor and jumped into the darkness, trying not to think about nooses and the fragility of necks. Beyond the trapdoor was darkness and a maze of secret passages, moving walls and cunning traps. He emerged again in a sparsely decorated room, where he found the black robes and skullcap that represented his life, which would also go on. Eventually.


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude that gives a glimpse of things to come.

1.

Sybil stared at the copy of the Ankh Morpork times that had been delivered with her morning mail. She wondered whether, in the moment between it had been written and the moment it had been dropped at the gate of the Ramkin Estate, anyone had thought of how she would react to it.

There was a photograph of Sam on the front page. It showed him walking towards the gallows, flanked by the members of the Watch. She supposed she should be grateful it didn’t have a photograph of the actual execution. A moving picture, one that showed Sam’s body dropping through the trap door over and over in an infinite loop. The citizens would have loved that. Yes, she should be grateful.

She sank to the floor of the hallway, tears streaming down her face. She crumpled the paper in her fists and started tearing it apart. She’d buy up all the papers in the city, tear them apart one by one and use them line her dragon pens. She would wait until they were drenched in swamp dragon dung. She would set them on fire and maybe she could see the entire city burn.

The thought made her giggle, a wild and desperate sound that echoed through the entrance hall.

2.

Come evening and bedtime for Young Sam, Sybil had calmed down just enough to sit next to his cot and read the words of his beloved book.

“Where’s my cow?” she started.

Young Sam frowned.

“Is that my cow?”

Something was very wrong with the world. That was not the voice of Daddy.

“It goes “Baa!”.”

That was Mommy’s voice. If Mommy was speaking the words, the world was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Young Sam started crying.

3.

Angua had been starting at her pint of beer for at least an hour now, despite Carrot’s best efforts at conversation. When he finally fell silent as well, she looked up at him and asked: “What are we going to do now?”

Carrot immediately sat up straight and said in a clear voice: “We are going to keep the peace.”

Angua groaned and let her head fall to the table. “Please don’t do that. You don’t have the voice for it.”

“For what? For being a commander? I don’t want to be one anyway.”

“No, “ Angua said sharply, “for being Vimes.”

 

4.

Drumknott softly entered the Patrician’s office. Vetinari stood looking out one of his windows that overlooked the city. Drumknott stood behind him, uncertain of what to do next. He didn’t like being uncertain.

“Drumknott. You’re hovering.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Why?”

“I… I’m not sure, my lord.”

“You have a question.”

“Yes, my lord.” Drumknott was silent for several minutes. “It’s just, why? You were sure Vimes was innocent. Nothing changed your mind. Why did you allow him to be hanged?”

Vetinari didn’t move, didn’t look away from the city, never let a hint of emotion slip into his voice.

“Why Drumknott, isn’t it obvious? The answer is, of course, politics.”

5.

“Politics.” Colon nodded sagely.

Nobby wrenched his attention away from the doorknobs-of-uncertain-status they were passing along their beat. They didn’t really have to patrol, but somehow they had just started walking and talking.

"Not now, sarge." Nobby said.

Colon deflated. "I know."

He was quiet for a while. He opened his mouth a few times as if to speak, but didn't say anything. Nobby took pity on him.

"C’mon, sarge. I'll buy you a drink. And not even with money from the tea kitty neither."

A drink wouldn’t make everything better, but maybe it could keep things from getting worse for just a little while.

Meanwhile, life went on.

6.

Life went on for Moist von Lipwig, who presently sat down carefully in the chair opposite Vetinari’s desk. He thought he knew why his presence was suddenly expected at the Palace, and somehow that was even worse than not knowing.

Vetinari patiently waited until he had found a moderately comfortable position to ask, “How are things going at the Post Office, Mr Von Lipwig?”

“Things are going very well, my lord.” He reported. “We had some trouble with our Genua connection last week, but I convinced Miss Dearheart to take on a position as Golem Resource Manager and the connection is now stable once again.”

“That is good news. Does Miss Dearheart enjoy her new position?”

“She complains a lot, but I dare say she does. She’s working on a watertight mail bag that could be carried underwater to Fourecks.”

“Fascinating. You did say Miss Dearheart?”

“Err, yes, my lord. We keep trying to find a convenient date for the marriage, but, what with one thing and another, we never actually seem to find one.”

“A pity, to be sure. Is there anything else you would like to discuss with me?”

“Yes, actually, there is one thing. You know how when I was redesigning the city’s currency, I also did the coins, since their production was very inefficient, and they were much too heavy anyway, right?”

The Patrician nodded and motioned at Moist to continue. Moist gritted his teeth. The man knew very well what he was getting at, but he just had to make him sweat. As far as Vetinari was concerned, things never went the easy way for Moist von Lipwig.

“Well, as I’m sure you’re well aware, for the design of the ten penny coins we decided on a profile of, well, erm, the late Commander Vimes.” He waited for a moment, hoping against hope, but the Patrician only looked at him expectantly. “Right. So now we’re wondering if we should redesign them again. Vimes might not be the man we want on our coins. On the other hand, if we take these coins out of circulation and replace them with other ones, they will become collectibles, which would be even worse.”

“And you would like my advice on the matter?”

“Well, you are the tyr-, err, ruler of the city, my lord.”

Vetinari ignored the slip, seeing as he was used to it by now. “I see. My advice is to leave things as they are. Commander Vimes has served the city well for many years, and maybe his face will keep our various petty criminals on their toes. As time passes, all the faces on your coins and notes will become those of dead men.”

“I can’t argue with that, my lord. I’ll pass on your advice to the Board of Directors. I’m sure they’ll see the wisdom of your words.” Moist said, and though and maybe no one will notice that Vimes is not only dead but a convicted murderer, even if hardly anyone who matters believes it.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, if there is nothing else?”

Moist hesitated. There was nothing else, not really. Just a tiny detail that had bothering him off and on ever since the Hanging. And it was the Hanging now, with a capital H, even if people only spoke about it in whispers. It had become an Event in their minds. Moist tried to keep out of politics, but he knew that several important people were working on a committee to evaluate certain laws on the search and seizure and evidence. He was sure Vimes would have been very happy to know that his death might make the law just a bit more efficient.

“Is there anything else, Mr Lipwig? You seem to have something on your mind.”

“What? No! It’s of no importance really. It’s just, I couldn’t help but notice that Commander Vimes was hanged by Mr Trooper.”

Vetinari looked at him sharply. “How astute. Mr Trooper is our best hangman, as I’m sure you’re well aware, and I did feel that Commander Vimes deserved the best in his last moments. It would have been quite dreadful if, for example, his neck had failed to break, and he would have had to choke to death.”

“Of course, my lord. Forget I said anything.”

“I think I will. Now, don’t let me keep you from your duties, Mr Lipwig.”

Moist moved to leave. With his hand back already turned and his hand on the doorknob, he asked, “Did he find the second spoon?”

Vetinari smiled. Moist might be a clever man, but he never knew when to stop. He did know how to keep a secret, though. Even if he didn’t know exactly that he was keeping one. Vetinari smiled thinly.

“I think you’ll remember, Mr Lipwig, that it took you three weeks to find the second spoon. As it is, there was no second spoon in the cell of the Commander. Furthermore, I am given to understand that he spent his time staring into empty space rather than looking for spoons, checking his window for loose bars or considering the size of the drain in the floor in comparison to that of his own body.”

Moist left without saying anything else. There was nothing he could say, really.

7.

Vetinari stared at the closed door for a moment. He stood up, walked around his desk twice and along the walls of his office once, to end up in front of an empty patch of wall. He stared at it for a long time, then seemed to make up his mind. He pressed his hand against an exceedingly unremarkable patch of wall and made a sweeping motion to the right.

The wall slid aside noiselessly, and behind it was only darkness. He picked up one of the candles that were stacked on a small shelf behind the wall and lit it with one of the accompanying matches. The door closed behind him, seemingly in reaction to the light.

He walked slowly through narrow corridors and up steep stairways. When the corridors widened, he used all the space available, moving in circles and arches, almost dancing in elegant spirals, always making sure not to move so quickly that the candle would go out.

When he reached the door that was his destination, the light of the candle revealed a thin wire at about knee height. He kneeled down and allowed the candle flame to burn through the wire. Nothing seemed to happen. He waited for exactly twelve seconds before opening the door and stepping into the domain of Leonard of Quirm.

Leonard was painting.

“It seems to me,” he said, without looking up from his work, “that the Ankh side of the side has been buried under ice for several thousand years longer than the Morpork side. There is some evidence of a volcanic eruption that could have melted the ice, though I can’t see a reason for the strict demarcation.”

Vetinari moved closer to him. It was fascinating to watch Leonard paint. It was like watching a god in the process of building a universe. The canvas depicted a frozen wasteland, and Leonard was now adding streams of lava.

“Fascinating.” Vetinari said. “I don’t suppose the river itself could have served as a boundary?”

“Oh no. The river didn’t even exist at the time, not as such. If there was an actual barrier, it must have been of magical nature. In which cases traces of it might still exist, and we could test for it. I’m currently designing a device that can heat up any kind of mineral to its exact boiling point and fling it over large distances.”

“I think I’d rather not have balls of lava flying through my city.”

“Oh, it’s just a thought experiment, really. It wouldn’t be very useful, since I wouldn’t be able to oversee the experiment in person in either case.”

That would be because he’s not allowed to leave this room. Vetinari wondered, not for the first time, how resigned the man was to his fate.

“Indeed. Now tell me, how is your guest faring?”

“As well as can be expected. He’s breathing regularly now, and I’ve perfected a device to feed him. I myself, ehm, tend to forget.”

“Good.”

Vetinari walked over to the second bed that had recently been added to the room. The space had initially been cleared, but he saw that it was already filling up with drawings and mechanical contraptions of no obvious purpose. He was pleased to see that the man in the bed was indeed breathing regularly now. It had been painful to see him struggling for breath, the first week after his arrival. He sat down on the bed and pressed his hand against the man’s forehead for a moment.

“Good evening, Sir Samuel,” he murmured.

Vimes did not reply. He couldn’t of course. Vetinari had given Leonard strict orders to keep him unconscious at all times until instructed otherwise.

Leonard stumbled over to the bed as well. He looked worried.

Vetinari's eyes flashed to a spot of air slightly to the left and about a foot above Vimes' head.

"What was that? I saw* a flicker of blue light."

*Other people might have said "I thought I saw" or "I'd swear I saw", but not Vetinari. He kept an even firmer grip on his senses than on his memory.

"Well spotted, my lord. That was Death's scythe. Not many people notice it."

"He's here? Does that mean - ?"

"Oh no. His Grace is fine. Death has been coming here occasionally these past few weeks. Can't seem to decide when he'll be needed. He brings a book, most of the time, and just sits there. He's been here a lot less the past few days, though. He says the odds are turning against him."

"I… see." Vetinari said weakly. "Very well. I suppose that's an encouraging development."

Leonard nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. And I do hope I’m taking good care of him. I know a lot about medicine and nursing, but I’ve never actually had a patient. I’m sure the sedative I give him is perfectly harmless, though I fear it will be some time before he regains full consciousness even after I stop administering it. Do you think he looks healthy? I’ve tried to find out how much man of his size should eat, but I couldn’t find any two sources that agreed.”

“You’re doing very well, Leonard. His complexion is healthy. His temperature is normal. I can see he hasn’t lost or gained an unhealthy amounts of weight.”

“Good, good. I am a bit worried, though.”

“What about, exactly?”

“Well, you see, the thing is, if a person is unconscious for a long time, his muscles will atrophy. I also foresee undesirable changes in metabolic systems, body fat distribution, and growth of things like nails and hair. I’m speaking broadly, of course. I’ll need to do more research to give exact predictions.”

“I see. You think it would be advisable to have him regain consciousness, then?”

“I do think that would be healthier for his body overall.”

“I’ll think about it. Leonard, we have spoken about Sir Samuel before, do you remember?”

“Of course. You've often talked to me about him. You seemed to think he was a very valuable citizen of your city.”

“That I did. I do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t really understand your latest actions, though. First you allow him to be executed, thus rendering him useless. Now you wish to keep him alive, even though he will never be able to take up his public duties again, since the public must believe him to be dead.”

“There were political reasons for allowing his execution. A lot of people wanted to see him dead, and when the possibility of execution arose they seemed to think I had to choose sides. Now they believe I’m on their side rather than his, and there are a lot more of them than of him.”

“Obviously, since he is but one man. Then why do you keep him alive now?”

“Because he is one of kind, Leonard. Just like you.”

Leonard didn't reply. Vetinari pressed his hand against Vimes’ forehead again and left it there. He heard Leonard walk back towards his easel.

He moved his fingers over Vimes’ face and lowered his head until their foreheads touched. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Vimes was one of kind, true enough, but one of which kind? Leonard had been born a genius, while Vimes had been made a cynical bastard. Even if you allowed for his righteous determination, thousands could do the job of Commander of the City Watch as well as he had. But Vimes was, well, Vimes.

He stood up abruptly and left. He knew he would be back, probably before the night was over, but right now he wanted to be away from what was shaping out to be a very dangerous weakness.

8.

Back in his office, Vetinari said down in his chair and leaned back. He thought about Death, and he thought about angels. He needed an angel that could save Vimes. He needed an angel that Vimes could accept. And most of all, he needed an angel that would make everything all right again.


End file.
